As a volunteer for the local humane society, I found myself, in retirement, doing “cat outreach” in Montana.  On weekends, we would take five or six shelter cats downtown to two locations, setting up their cages and tables in public places, showing off the cats and hopefully finding them homes.  We usually found homes for two or three cats per weekend this way.  Merchants were cooperative, clearing space in their stores for us.  We generally tried to select older cats, and those who were shy and didn’t show well at the shelter.  If we failed to get them homes, the selected cats, at the least, would get a few hours away from the crowded humane society cat room, and human contact.  The hard part was taking those back who didn’t get adopted.

One Saturday, I found myself at the Montana Book and Toy Store, in the small downtown area, with a cat named “Snow.”  Snow was an older female cat, twelve years, an all white shorthair, and a bit overweight . She was a  “turn in” whose previous owner at a local retirement home had recently passed away.  She was a cat, who, as the handout said, needed a quiet home, but was good with dogs and children.  Perhaps a one-person cat.  I could also see what the handout didn’t say, that Snow was a sad cat, with sad eyes.  We had two cats to show that day, Snow and a young, friendly, gray female.  There were lots of families coming into the store as we were setting up.  I sensed this could be a good day.  I sensed the mood.

When we took the cats our of their travel cages to put them on leashes, I noticed that the all white “Snow” had soiled herself and hadn’t been able to clean herself.  The shelter had apparently not caught this and groomed her before sending her over.  She was brown on her whole backside, as if she had experienced diarrhea. I could see she was embarrassed by this.  Judy, the other outreach volunteer working with me that day felt we might have to take Snow back to the shelter.  But, I wasn’t going to take her back.  I was not going to let this sweet Snow lose her opportunity for a home.

I had never groomed a cat, but I took “Snow” into the store’s bathroom, and locked the door.  Laying her on the floor, I took some soapy paper towels, and started cleaning her fur. At first, I couldn’t see any progress, since her white hair was so stained, and she was a bit nervous with the wet towels.  But, as she lay there on the floor looking at me anxiously and squirming a bit, I spoke to her calmly, saying “Snow, you are my angel.  Be patient and I will get you a home today.  I promise.”  She seemed to understand my meaning and my caring, and she cooperated, not squirming much, just lying there as I did my work, watching me with loving green eyes. We spent fifteen minutes in the bathroom, and finally she was clean and her fur white again, just wet.  As I dried her with paper towels, she was very cooperative, and when I leaned over to pick her up gently to carry her back to the display area, she gave me a clear look of gratitude.  It said she appreciated my help and love, doing for her what she couldn’t do for herself, helping her out of her embarrassment.  I also detected a hopeful look, of kindness recalled, of love she had known before, and an inquiring look of “are you going to take me home.  I’ll be your cat.”  Anyone who worked in a shelter knew that look.  Snow and I had bonded in that bathroom.

When I got back to the display area with Snow, Judy gave a nod of approval.  I learned that the young gray cat had already gotten a home.  A mother had come in with her young daughter, and they had called the father on their cell phone for his approval.  The shelter had agreed and we were awaiting the father’s arrival with a cage.  Judy was beaming with satisfaction over a successful adoption.  In the meantime, other children in the store were coming over to play with both the cats.  Snow, as it turned out, was very calm with young kids.  One of the bookstore clerks at the register near us commented on what a nice cat she was.

By this time, our outreach director, Helen, had joined us to see how things were going and if we needed anything.  At about this time, an elderly woman came in and petted Snow and asked if she was good with other cats.  What was her background? Helen explained that Snow was older and wasn’t doing too well at the shelter because she was too reserved and didn’t stand out, but she was wonderful.  I was thinking to myself that this lady would be a good owner for Snow, but she drifted off without making a commitment.  We still had two hours to go.

It was during this busy period, with lots of customers coming in and out, and drifting over to look at the cats, that an attractive dark-haired lady in her mid-40s came over and started examining both cats.  She looked like a business woman on lunch break, asking about a particular book at one point to the sales clerks who seemed to know and like her.   They called her “Anna.”   While she was with the cats, her boss happened in.  They operated a business on the mall, and both happened in on their separate breaks.  I heard “Anna” mention to her boss that she might adopt a cat today, and, if so, might need a bit longer lunch hour to take the cat home, if that was okay.  Her boss said she could have all afternoon if she needed it.  If Anna wanted, she could even bring the cat to the business.  She was obviously making it easy for Anna to get the cat, even encouraging it.  There was also something in her voice that caught my attention, a kind of solicitation, a caring towards Anna that the bookstore staff had also displayed.  Was Anna a respected local citizen?   Her boss was a bit too accommodating, a bit intent, while acting off-hand, and the staff’s looks were also a bit intent.  Anna came off as a serious person, quiet and maybe a bit artistic.  Her manner was courteous but distracted, a bit distant.  She sort of drifted in her own world, and I don’t think she heard a thing I said about Snow or noticed me at all.  At one point, she drifted off to look at the fiction section nearby.  Her boss had left by then.

And then, she suddenly came back, straight to Snow, and picked her up and held her to her chest.  Snow just laid there against her, motionless, content, in heaven, her eyes closed.   Anna carried Snow over to the wall behind the display, and sat down on the floor, out of the way, her back against the wall and legs stretched out, holding Snow against her.  Snow seemed desperate for this human contact, relaxing in Anna’s arms, closing her eyes, snuggling against her.  They sat there like that for thirty minutes, Anna not saying anything, her eyes closed, too, Snow not moving, as we conversed among ourselves. They seemed to be sleeping.  Judy shrugged as if to say, I hope she doesn’t tie the cat up for the rest of the time.  A blue-collar guy nodded at the scene, commenting “I think that cat has found a home.”  I walked over to Helen, and said ” those two are made for each other. This is the home I want for Snow.”  Helen gave me a knowing look and walked me away towards the front, whispering “That is Anna Paul.  She just lost her son.”   We drifted back and I remembered the newspaper obituary about her son, an Afghan War veteran who won a bronze star for heroism, came home with PTSD, kept silent about it, and killed himself.  Everyone in the store, in town for that matter, knew the story and the Paul family, and knew of Anna’s devastation.

Snow lay in Anna’s arms, both still appeared to be sleeping. Finally, Anna opened her eyes and got up, still holding Snow whose eyes were still closed.  Each had needed the time together.  Each obviously needed a companion.  Each had suffered a loss and was lost.  Anna asked for an adoption form.  The whole store was smiling. I called the shelter for the okay, Anna paid the fee, we loaned her a cage, and, like that, she walked out of the store.  Snow, too, only had eyes for her.  I said a private prayer for both of them.  Judy said, “thank God for Snow.”

I left Judy and stepped outside for a breather.   The sun seemed to be shining brighter than ever before.  I said to myself, “Thank God for Anna.”  I was thinking of Snow’s eyes, her look of gratitude and love in the bathroom, and the promise to her that I kept.  I would never forget her.

It is the beginning of evening in Helena.  Snow is floating down.   A wind has suddenly picked up, carrying a cold bite, coming from the north, from Canada.   The sidewalks are now powdered with a thin layer of snow.  The yard is frozen, the straw-colored grass, trampled down.   He walks down from under the porch, and looks up at the sky.  Tiny flakes saturate the air, like a mist.  In the distance, he hears a horn blast from the Burlington Northern train, clear and deep.

He loves early winter in the northern Rockies.  Not yet the prolonged bitter cold.  The surrounding sheltering mountains, and he quiet and solitude of winter.  People off the streets.  Dark green pines amid all the the whiteness, the smell of wood-fired chimneys.  He likes the shelter of winter.  Activity slows.  You are not coming and going.  Time slows.

He has been retired ten years, but his mind keeps returning to his diplomatic career, to the Foreign Service.  The time in Africa, working on Ethiopian famine, fighting Liberian dictatorship, analyzing Rwandan massacres.   Mozambique, and negotiations at the Vatican.  His first tour, Israel, carrying messages to Moshe Dayan at home, watching Sadat fly into Jerusalem.  Mainly, he remembers Russia, the Soviet era, then, the early Yeltsin years, Aeroflot flights from Moscow to the east, through nine time zones, to Sakhalin, the Chinese and Korean borders, Arctic Circle, and Kamchatka.  Taking off in blizzards.  It had been an interesting twenty five years.  He knew, everyone said, he had to build a new life, find new meaning.

He had turned to art in retirement.   He is, finally, after eight years, learning to shelve ambition.  Now, he can do what he always wanted, teach American literature, Hemingway and Faulkner.   Give slide presentations on Frank Lloyd Wright and Art Nouveau.  He is also finding satisfaction by volunteering at the humane society.   Taking care of cats.   Grooming them, finding them homes.   No more pressures.  You have earned time to write and reflect and travel and learn.

What had he accomplished in all those years, bouncing along West African roads, running up hilly highways past rice paddies and Acacia trees; walking in dark Liberian villages at night where the only light came from the stars; driving through the gray bureaucratic streets of Belarus?  Walks through Old Town Havana, being followed.  The highway between Jerusalem and Tel Aviv, and West Bank villages amid olive trees.  A kaleidoscope of cities: Nairobi, Kinshasa, Pretoria, Cairo, Nicosia, Frankfurt, Lisbon, Maputo, Johannesburg, Geneva, Kiev, Vilnius,  Warsaw, St. Petersburg, Odessa.

He is brought back to the present by a crow’s “caw.”   The cold, he realizes, is beginning to permeate his overcoat.  It is getting dark.  No moon is visible.  Walking up to his porch, he can see yellow dots, the lights of the city below, in the distance, in the north valley.  To his left, he hears a dog bark, then two dogs, large dogs, with loud barks.  Chimes from Helena Cathedral can barely be heard, a short set.   A solitary figure walks across the street, crunching the frozen ice on the sidewalk.   A car comes crunching down the street, headlight beams preceding it.  Another vehicle, a loud white pickup, an older model, meets it at the corner.  The car waits, despite the fact that the truck came later.

Looking to the north, down Harrison Avenue, he can see occasional street lights illuminating Craftsmen and Victorian houses.   Barren trees cast diagonal stripes across the pavement.  There are dark areas where there is no light.   He looks up to see if any stars are visible.  Not this time.

There had been benchmarks in his career.  At the Russian Blair house in Moscow, he had been in meetings where Shevardnadze and Baker negotiated the end to the Cold War, working out the details.  He had saluted the Russian as he walked out the back door, a personal tribute.   He had taken U.S. teams to search for MIAs in Russia.  Before Liberia fell apart, he had taken opposition leaders in a van to meet the visiting U.S. Secretary of State, picking them up all over town at street corners, in secret, against the wishes of the local government.   Later, he read in cables how they had been killed in the civil war, shot at roadblocks.  Somehow it all didn’t seem so far away or long ago.

He spends another half hour sitting on the porch in the cold, then goes upstairs to bed.  His wife is already asleep.   Fiji, his Siamese cat, crawls under the covers next to him.  She is purring, lying against his side.  He falls asleep, dreaming of Korean War aces, Sabres versus MiGs, no doubt from reading James Salter.  Early jets are gliding into position behind each other, not overshooting or losing speed at lower altitudes, avoiding the MiGs canons, pulling right and left on the shouts of their wingmen.

As he awakes the next morning, eyes closed, he is able to make out light coming in from the window to his side.   He can feel Fiji lying on his legs, on top of the covers now.  When he opens his eyes, finally, he is looking at a yellow wall.  Yellow in the morning light.  It is always nice to wake to a yellow room, bright and positive.  The light coming into the room is muted by white blinds, providing a nice feeling of shelter and seclusion from the outside world, yet knowing that beautiful hills and pines are just outside.  It is peaceful, a sanctuary.   There are noises outside, coming from the cars going by on the street.  Otherwise, the house is silent.   His wife is off to work.  Not a creak.

His back aches a bit, and he has to squirm to a more comfortable position, dislodging Fiji, who jumps down to her bowl on the floor.  He can hear her crunching her dry food, using her paw to lift one kernel at a time from the bowl, scraping it up and over the side of the bowl onto the floor, where she delicately eats it.  Five or six kernels is enough for her.  In a minute, she jumps back on top of him, sniffing his finger tips.  She is telling him, with her loud Siamese whine, that she wants a taste of coffee, her only luxury.   He obliges, dipping his finger into the cold coffee cup on the nightstand.   Putting his finger to her nose, she licks it.   As he gets up, he can feel tenderness on the soles of his feet.  There is a high pitch ringing in his ears that he always has, only noticeable when it is totally quiet and he is alone.  He ignores it now.

He stands up, enjoying the room’s aesthetic.  Pastel blue bed spread.   Monet and Renoir prints on the walls, their whites and blues prominent, women with spread out dresses in a lawn party, boaters and people dancing in the gardens, Monet’s wife Camille and Renoir’s ever present brother with derby hat.  Monet is more precise; Renoir is more impressionistic and rough, but more human.   He loves the Impressionists, Manet’s people in black evening dress, black horses with thin legs at the Longchamp track.  Pisarro’s street scenes of Paris, Monparnasse, looking down on trams and Chestnut lined avenues which capture the era.  Degas’ ballerinas, Toulouse-Lautrec’s illuminated faces at the Follies Bergiere.   On the dresser are old photographs of his mother’s family in Winterset, the uncles and aunts, no longer around, dressed in their finest, the women with white silk blouses, long pleated skirts, and button up boots.  A Persian rug covers the smooth pine floor.  Coming downstairs, he passes a leaded glass window at the bottom of the stairs, the birch trees out front showing through.  He enters the parlor, tan walls which look olive with less light, cocoa and teal sofa and chairs, Contemporary to offset the Victorian architecture.  The wooden door frames are wide, painted white.  Bay windows look out to the street on one side, the yard on the other.  Snow is on the ground.  The aesthetic is important to him.

He is lethargic, drowsy, a sign of slowing down, of aging, noticeable to him for the first time, at 61.  He sits down at the dining room table in front of the large bay windows, looking at a poster of Santa Fe on the plumb colored wall, adobe houses and juniper covered mountains in the background, red chilis hanging from trellises.  He misses the Southwest.   Helena and Santa Barbara; Helena and Santa Fe.  Not a bad life.  He looks forward to a productive and fun day, grooming cats, watching “The Ipcress File” on video, crepes at Jeff’s on the mall, another good Salter book on the mantel, “Cassada,” also about MiGs and Sabres over the Yalu.  He has read it once before.  He has seen the Ipcress File before as well.

Fiji, his Siamese cat, comes down the stairs.  He heard her feet hit the floor up above as she jumped off the bed.  She floats like a ghost through the house, razor thin and quiet, making her rounds, repeating her foray through rooms, exploring, coming back to the dining room and pausing by his chair, extending one thin brown and tan foreleg, touching his pant leg at the knee, her way of asking for approval to jump up into his lap, her bright blue eyes and chocolate and tan seal point face searching his eyes.  “Yes, it’s okay. Come on up.”  She jumps up.  He is reminded of the Dylan song, “a diplomat with his Siamese cat.”   He likes the elegance of the Siamese, their intelligence, and their absolute loyalty.   He strokes the smooth short hair along her back.  After a minute, she moves, sits up, and jumps down, but brushes against his leg in a show of affection on the way out.  The wonder of animals. The cute face and blue eyes looking up intently.  Our little companions, guardians.  Helen at the animal shelter, had recently told him that San Francisco, for some reason, was full of Siamese.  There are few in Helena.

Later, he dresses, selecting Wrangler jeans and a long sleeve knit shirt with navy blue Filson sweater, and Merrells, puts on his Yak Trax, and drives over to Birds and Beasley’s on Park Avenue, to sign up  for the local bird watching club.   As he gets out of his car, a swoon of sparrows, swoop by him, close to the car, heading off to the north.   It is chilly, perhaps twenty degrees.  He buttons his hounds tooth overcoat and rearranges his scarf tight around the neck.  A few seconds later, the birds fly back over his head the opposite direction, above the cliffs overlooking the streets, up Mt. Helena, an exact reverse course.   He is more conscious of birds now.

While adjusting his scarf, he hears a young child’s voice and slam of a pickup truck door, and sees a leashed black Labrador pup whining in the bed of a pick up.   The driver has gotten out of the driver’s side, and gone around to unfasten her daughter from her car seat.   The child is holding a doll.  As they head across the street towards the library, the mother stops at the tailgate, and lifts the daughter up so she can pet the pup.  These two, the girl and the lab, he thinks to himself, will grow up together.  What a life.  As they cross the street, the pup whines after them, staring at the library, his tail flying.  An older green Ford F-100 pickup is pulling out from the library parking lot across the street, white exhaust coming from the tailpipe like steam, showing how cold it is.

Taking a few seconds to look around at the door to Birds and Beasleys, he can see the hills above town, black birds flying high, ravens or crows, pumping their wings up and down slowly, soaring with little effort.   The cars on the street are dirty.  Two women and a young girl, cross the street to the local bakery.   They are bundled in parkas, holding hands, the girl in the middle.   A thirty-something man in pressed carpenter style blue jeans with loops, walks into the micro brewery next to Beasleys.  He has on only a medium weight jacket and baseball hat with sporting goods logo, a typical style in Montana.  A bit square jawed, blond, Scandinavian looking, intent.   A few minutes later, another mid-30s man appears, walking fast with no coat, wearing expensive cordovan pointed cowboy boots, oxford blue shirt, bolo tie, and green slacks, a businessman carrying a clipboard and papers.  Western business casual, but perhaps a bit too dressy for here.  Could be a developer turned businessman, but not dressed casual enough for that.  That would be jeans and work shirt, a bit rougher type.   Could be a business person who is also an outdoorsman.  A bit too pudgy.  Could be a politician. The legislature is in session.

Leaving the bird shop, he starts the engine, the deep rumble of German motor.  The Four Tops come on the radio, on the 60s station, soul music: “Standing in the Shadow of  Love.”  The deep voiced male, choppy words, “I give my heart and soul to you dear, didn’t I…”   He eases out the clutch as he backs out, then shifts into first, thinking of other things, of the adult education course he will be teaching, of Hemingway’s “Big Two Hearted River,” the simple fishing tale in the Michigan Peninsula, with no mention of World War I and the post traumatic stress disorder the hero is suffering from.   He thinks of the veterans of World War I, like Hemingway’s Nick Adams, or Hemingway, himself, wounded, returning home to Oak Park to find no one cares about the war.  The poor Doughboys, saving the world for democracy, who did so well and who discovered a new world of Paris at the same time, and who ended up Depression-era beggars, dispersed from Anacostia Flats and resettled in Florida with no pensions, many killed by a hurricane, others riding the rails, carrying photos of themselves as young men, wearing saucer helmets in trenches.

He turns off the radio, and finds himself humming “K-K-K- Katy.”  He turns left onto Lawrence, heading up the hill towards Harrison Avenue and home, the tires sliding a bit on the packed snow.  There, on the left, on the sidewalk between two apartment buildings, he spots a young black cat, alert amber eyes, walking home for dinner, free and happy looking.   Could it be “Godiva,” the shelter cat he was so close to, recently adopted.  It looked like her.  Godiva, who rode on his shoulder and pressed against his head, purring, as he groomed the cats at the shelter.  Godiva, who finally got a home.   He is happy for Godiva, wherever she is.  Getting her a home was more significant than anything he had done in the past.   He slows to watch the young cat go into the apartment building, and says a quiet prayer for Godiva in his mind as he drives the last blocks.