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Buttons

Mark Pearce

    Sleep has always been a dicey thing for me, and I was going through some stressful times. A job transfer had caused me to move into my parents’ basement. My nephew had been living with them, but he was moving out at the same time I was moving in. There were certain logistics to handle. I moved my things in, he moved his out. It was a hectic few weeks. Much to my surprise, when all the shuffling was completed, I was roommates with a cat.
    I had never had a pet before. There had been animals in the house while I was growing up, mostly a string of dogs, big dogs; also a bird, gerbils, a Siamese cat, and a rabbit. But I never felt attached to any of them. They were just part of the menagerie of living with a big family. Now I shared a basement with a cat. The two of us would be cohabiting until I either moved into the main part of the house or got an apartment. I wasn’t sure how I felt about living in an enclosed area with an animal.
    I didn’t even know what to call her. She didn’t really have a name. She had always been more or less generically referred to as baby or kitty. I felt if I was going to be living with her, she needed a proper name. I considered something literary, a literary female name. I toyed with the idea of Louisa May Alcatt, but I hate puns. Also, it somehow didn’t fit the little face that watched me around corners. I considered Midnight or Shadow, since she’s totally black, but these seemed generic as well.
    One of the things they told me about her was that no one knew where she slept. She had lived with my nephew in an apartment, and then with my nephew and my parents in their home, but she never slept with anyone. At night she would just go off somewhere. As a troubled sleeper, I considered this good news. And it turned out to be true. Whenever I went to bed at night, she would go around to her side of the basement, and I wouldn’t see her again until I fed her in the morning.
    I noticed what a good natured little kitty she was. She never howled at night. She never squalled when she needed food or water. She would just look at me around the corner and give one little meow. I would get up from what I was doing, and she would lead me to her bowls, then stand looking over her shoulder at me, waiting for me to fill them.
    Then one night, when I got settled into bed, I felt her climb into bed with me. But she never touched me. She curled up into a ball at the foot of the bed about six inches away from my feet and went to sleep. When I got up in the morning, she was gone.
    She did it again the next night, waited until I was completely settled, then slipped into bed at my feet. And again, she never touched me. It was as if she was afraid that if I knew she was there, I would make her leave.
    I watched her peeping at me around corners during the day. I sat in my recliner and started to read. She jumped up onto the arm of the chair and gave me little head butts on my shoulder and arm. I petted her head. She climbed onto my chest and curled up into a ball.
    That night she got into bed with me again. I lay there and thought about the little bundle of personality that was curled up at my feet. I reached over and began to rub her with my foot to let her know I knew she was there and that she was welcome.
    The next night, she slept on me. She couldn’t wait to get into bed that night. I had barely pulled the covers up before she had jumped up onto the bed and climbed up on me.
    My head was deep under the sheets. “They told me you don’t sleep with anyone,” I said through the cloth.
    She started to purr.
    She began following me around as I was getting ready for work in the mornings. Whenever I would stop moving, she would lift her head. I would reach down and pet her. Then she would follow me to our next stop.
    One night I came home three hours late. When I came in, she ran up, rubbing against my leg and giving me little head butts. I sat in my recliner and leaned back. She climbed up on my chest and continued the soft little head butts. She began with my left shoulder and worked her way all the way down to my wrist. Then she shifted her feet and started on my right shoulder, working her way all the way down my right arm. Dozens of little head butts. And suddenly I knew her name.
    “It’s okay, Buttons,” I said, cuddling her to my chest. “I’ll always come home.”
    At Christmas, she helped me wrap my presents. She took the job very seriously. What she lacked in human dexterity she made up for with feline eagerness. It would be difficult to say which of us worked the harder.
    I once set a handful of Q-tips on the table. She considered them to be her personal mission. After they were all on the floor it was okay, but so long as they were still running around on the table, trying to escape, she pursued them relentlessly.
    Sometimes I had trouble figuring out what she was doing. I would be working at my desk and she would climb up and sit on her haunches under the lamp, then slowly raise herself straight up until her head and shoulders were inside the lampshade. She would then sit very still. It took me a while to figure out that this was her version of sunning herself on the beach.
    Then the pandemic hit. The economy crashed. The daily headlines were stark and dystopian. My friends and coworkers were very stressed.
    I remember lying in bed one night feeling peaceful and relaxed; strange, considering everything that was going on in the world. I was going to ask Buttons why I was feeling so serene, but I didn’t want to disturb her. She was curled up on me, her little chin draped across my shoulder, purring into my ear.
    I guess it will remain a mystery.
    We both just drifted off to sleep before we could give it any further thought.

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