Boris Read online

  fill the mind,

  and it is a safe world

  for children and cats,

  and God is not so lost.

  17

  Dogs are all the same

  at the animal hospital.

  You’ve seen them, Boris.

  Pacing and complaining

  and peeing on the floor.

  And the cats,

  with their heads tucked

  inside their owners’ bellies,

  they aren’t much better.

  How is it then, Boris,

  that you are so

  magnanimous

  when you arrive?

  Sitting quietly in your

  kitty bag,

  taking stock of

  all the wimps

  around you,

  pausing now and then

  to wash your pretty feet.

  And when I carry you

  into the examining room

  it is you who does

  the examining.

  Freed from your bag,

  you move from table to

  chair to table,

  inspecting all the instruments

  and spray bottles

  and that big jar of dog treats

  behind the soap.

  Taking your time.

  And when the doctor

  walks in,

  you are stretched out

  on that stainless-steel counter,

  humming a tune

  and wondering if anybody

  is up for a game of Scrabble.

  Outside in the waiting room,

  the waiting and pacing

  and crying and moaning

  goes on,

  but in here, Boris,

  everything’s cool,

  we are so very cool,

  and the man you now

  refer to as Doc is

  admiring your

  thick gray coat and your

  sharp white teeth,

  and your purr is making the

  room tremble.

  A hospital takes

  the measure of a man,

  Boris, and you are the

  manliest man of a cat

  any of us has ever seen.

  Tossing a dozen dog biscuits

  into your kitty bag,

  you say sayonara

  when the exam is done,

  and the doctor retreats quietly

  into his office

  to pop a couple

  testosterone pills,

  while out in the waiting room

  the place falls into a hush

  as you pass by,

  already curled up

  with the latest copy of Cat Fancy

  in one paw

  and a martini

  in the other.

  18

  I know I probably shouldn’t

  mention the other male cats

  who came before you, Boris.

  It doesn’t take a girl

  long

  to find out

  how touchy men are

  about old boyfriends.

  No matter how much

  you’re dying to tell

  the guy you’re with

  about the time

  your old boyfriend

  made you drive

  a stick shift in the

  middle of the night

  on the way to Myrtle Beach

  even though you’d

  only driven automatics

  and he went to sleep

  and left you there on

  the freeway trying to

  downshift from fourth

  to third

  so you could catch

  that exit ramp

  coming up,

  and the thrill of that,

  that you managed it

  with no lessons,

  or that other boy

  you jumped out of the plane

  to impress

  and floated down at 5,000 feet

  only to realize

  a couple days later

  he was gay

  and you nearly

  splattered yourself

  all over Dayton, Ohio, for him,

  even though it’s a great story,

  DON’T TELL IT.

  So maybe, Boris,

  I shouldn’t tell you

  about the others.

  About Audience and Beckett

  and Louie and Tobias

  and Edward, dear Edward,

  whom I found dead

  by the side of the road,

  after coming home from

  a funny movie,

  and the awfulness

  that I’d been

  having a good laugh

  at the moment of impact

  when that car

  slammed into him

  and, God, I hope

  killed him instantly.

  Everyone loved Edward.

  Can I tell you that, Boris?

  That when a couple

  came to buy my house

  they wanted Edward with it

  and they weren’t kidding.

  He was a sweetheart,

  loved to ride on my shoulders.

  He’d been abandoned like you, Boris.

  You two would have had

  a lot to talk about.

  Yes, there have been others.

  But there never was

  nor ever shall be

  another Boris,

  you can believe me

  when I say it,

  and I tell you we are

  here now together

  to make our mark,

  you and I,

  in this brief moment

  before we lie down

  to an eternal sleep

  among the roses.

  There have been other cats, Boris,

  but of those who disappeared and are

  maybe still alive,

  one of them is probably

  telling some other human

  that she’s not the first

  he’s loved.

  No, there was that other one,

  years ago,

  with the small blond boy

  and all the goldfish

  and that constant

  Beatles music.

  Boris, if you live someday

  with another person,

  please be kind

  when you speak of me,

  and explain that, yes, I

  was maybe now and then

  too alone,

  but that I

  made you happy,

  and that you

  made me happy, too.

  19

  Last December I moved

  one state south,

  and that night, Boris,

  you and your sister

  were put in kitty-crates

  and were driven

  six long hours

  squeezed in the

  back of the van

  with the dogs,

  the Labrador

  panting like a bellows,

  the corgi

  throwing up on her bed,

  the dachshund

  whining and wanting some

  immediate answers now.

  What were you thinking, Boris?

  Were you remembering

  how it was at the shelter,

  how they hauled

  you and your sister in crates

  from the main building

  to the little storefront building

  every morning,

  and put you in the window

  for everyone to see,

  then hauled you back

  again at night?

  Did you learn to hate

  a crate?

  Did you learn

  that vans suck?

  What must you

  have been thinking, then,

  when you were

  put in the back of my van,

  in a crate,


  and driven six long hours south.

  Did you think

  you were going back, Boris?

  Back to that big main building?

  And did you take one

  last look

  at the lattice fence

  you loved to stroll on,

  and the poplar tree

  you loved to climb,

  and the house where

  the triplets gave you shrimp?

  Did you work

  on your attitude,

  those six long hours

  in the van,

  and tell yourself

  you could live in a cage again

  if that’s the way it is?

  Life isn’t perfect.

  And were you ready, Boris,

  to say good-bye to me

  up until the very moment

  the van stopped

  and you were lifted out

  and carried into

  a house

  that had the same old furniture

  you’d been clawing up for three years,

  and a warm fire

  in a large stove,

  and, yes,

  even your favorite

  brand of kitty litter.

  If your life passed

  before your eyes, Boris,

  between the old house

  and the new one,

  then we are

  made of the same stuff.

  Because I, too, have mourned

  the passing of fences

  and yards

  and small children

  as I drove away

  from an old life

  on my way somewhere else

  where I hoped maybe I’d find

  something that was missing.

  I have never managed this

  without tears.

  But isn’t it so, Boris,

  that every new place

  has such beautiful trees

  and a blue sky

  in the morning.

  Isn’t it so,

  that every new place

  is worth trying.

  Here, we walk among

  the cedars, Boris,

  hope in our hearts,

  three happy dogs

  in tow.

  About the Author

  CYNTHIA RYLANT is a Newbery Medalist and the author of many acclaimed books for young people. She’s well known for her popular characters for early readers, including Mr. Putter & Tabby and Henry & Mudge. She lives in the Pacific Northwest. Visit her website at www.cynthiarylant.com.