Interviews & Essays
Exclusive Author EssayTen years ago, before I published
The Cat Who Went to Paris, if there was one thing I never expected to happen, it’s that my life would become so intertwined with and nearly inseparable from the life of my cat, the wondrous Norton. Now, of course, I can’t imagine my life any other way. Most of the fan mail I’ve received over the years has come to “Norton’s dad” or directly to “Norton Gethers,” and whenever someone seems genuinely excited to meet me, it doesn’t take long before I realize the excitement comes from my connection to you-know-who. I long ago came to the realization that I was living alongside an extraordinary feline and, with that realization, came the additional understanding that he was the star and I was definitely the second banana. Most people who are owned by cats eventually come to that exact same understanding. Cats do tend to dominate their households. It’s just that most people’s second bananadom isn’t quite as public as mine.
Norton’s effect on my life is almost indescribable. In the three books I’ve now written about him, I’ve managed to show the things he did, the amazing directions in which he pointed me, and all sorts of ways he managed to change my life. Somehow, I feel I’ve still missed the point. Or, at least, that more needs to be said. Because although the specifics were wonderful and our adventures were always funny and exciting and loving, there’s definitely something grander that needs to be communicated. Norton didn’t just teach me about various things in life -- he taught me about life itself.
In The Cat Who’ll Live Forever, I talk about how I didn’t think I’d ever write about Norton again. Two books about the little guy were enough, I thought. Besides, what else did I have to say? In The Cat Who Went to Paris, I showed (in addition to all the witty little anecdotes) how my love for my Scottish Fold taught me how to love a real, honest-to-goodness woman and have an actual human-to-human relationship. In the follow-up, A Cat Abroad, I revealed how, thanks to Norton, I changed my life again -- withdrawing a bit from the corporate rat race (please excuse the non-feline expression) and learning to appreciate the freedom that can come with life. So what was left for him to teach me?
It turns out that there was quite a lot.
While I hope that most of The Cat Who’ll Live Forever is funny and entertaining -- that is, after all, what I think a fitting tribute to Norton should be -- there’s no question that the last chunk of the book is sad and tear-inducing (it certainly induced a lot of tears in me while I was writing it; when I finished the last chapter, I guarantee that I had the soggiest computer keyboard on the East Coast). Norton died of cancer -- in my arms, in my bed, the best possible death for both of us -- and he died with dignity and strength and courage. It was the final lesson I learned from him -- that it is indeed possible to die with dignity and strength and courage. It’s possible to die without fear and that, I think, is the best any of us can hope for. So, in one sense, his death was quite wonderful. And comforting. And even inspirational.
But let’s face it: The death of a loved one is sad. It should be sad. It’s healthy that it’s sad, and one of the things I learned from Norton’s death is that crying and grief and all the unpleasant feelings that come with grief are actually okay. They’re necessary. They’re part of life. In fact, in a strange way, they define life -- because they make us appreciate what we have when we have it. There’s a reason boundaries are important (and death is, of course, the ultimate boundary). They provide clarity and definition. And I think just about anyone would agree, if there are two things this kind of crazy world can use, those things would be clarity and definition.
What was most extraordinary about Norton’s death were the amazing reactions to it around the world. I, of course, was devastated. But that was to be expected. I’d spent 16 years with my pal -- almost 24 hours a day for 16 years, because I rarely went anywhere or did anything without him. What was unexpected was how many people were as touched and affected as I was. It was amazing. And wonderful to see.
The first thing that happened was that Norton became the first animal to have an obit in the New York Times. Then People magazine did a special tribute to him. His death was carried on radio stations and newspapers throughout the country. And soon I started getting letters and emails. Thousands of letters and emails. From all over the world. Some people wanted to make sure I was okay (and these were from strangers, remember). Mostly, people wanted to share their own sadness. They told me how much they had loved reading and hearing about Norton and, in some cases, even meeting him on his travels. They told me that Norton hadn’t just changed my life, he’d also changed their lives, and they needed to share their own grief over the fact that such a wonderful being was no longer around.
I guess that’s what I mean when I say that there’s something else that needed to be said about Norton. By the time he was 16, I had come to take for granted that he was special and that, while he was alive, he would always be teaching me things and giving me pure and unsullied joy. What I never knew -- how could one know such a thing? -- is that once he died, once I could no longer touch him, he’d still be able to touch me. And hundreds of thousands of people around the world.
As many of my readers (not to mention my friends) have pointed out to me, I am not the most spiritual person in the world. But Norton did teach me one very important thing about spirituality. It’s that death is not necessarily the end. Oh, it’s the end of some things, no question about it. I’m not one who believes that my cat is cavorting and munching on catnip, peering over a rainbow in some better world. This is the only world I believe in, and there’s no question that I miss those things gone from this world tremendously -- the companionship, the physical touch, the almost eerie understanding and communication between the two of us. That’s what grief is -- grief for animals that have died, grief for humans who have died. It’s all the same and it’s all valid. Grief is missing those day-to-day things upon which we’ve come to depend.
But death is not only about grief. Death is also about memory. And memory keeps things alive. It reminds us of the funny stuff. And the kind and caring moments that occurred. And, as I discovered, when Norton died, when I was so overwhelmed by the responses from his fans, memory also links all of us who are living. It binds us all and -- with no disrespect to the feline world -- it’s what makes us human.
That, ultimately, was Norton’s great gift. His memory. And because of that, I’m still able to laugh and love and I intend to keep laughing and loving as long as possible.
I hope that everyone who’s reading this now or who reads the books about my cat, will keep that gift in mind. And I hope they’ll keep laughing and loving, too. Norton would most definitely approve. (Peter Gethers)
Read an Excerpt
A Cat Rethought
Ever since I made the decision to write this, the third book about my gray, floppy-eared Scottish Fold pal, Norton, I have been trying to decide exactly how to begin.
That very human, very non-cat-like flaw called over-thinking settled in all too quickly, and, as a result, more and more time passed while I sat, stared into space, and didn't type. This book would, I thought, for many reasons, be somewhat different from the others and there were distinct choices that had to be made. Each choice would clearly alter style, tone and philosophy, if I can be pretentious enough to suggest that the books about my cat actually have a philosophy (and, please, don't worry; believe me, I know enough to understand that I'm writing something much closer to Tuesdays With Norton than I am to Meowing and Nothingness).
My first instinct was to begin like this:
One of the reasons I became a writer is because using words the way I do is as close as I can get to putting some kind of order in this rather crazy world of ours.
I was then going to go on and describe that one of the things in life that drives me most crazy is the way the English language is constantly mangled. As always, this is an area in which we should learn from the feline way of doing things. Cats have a way of speaking that is direct and unmistakably clear. Their words might all be the same but the meanings behind them are just a tad less ambiguous than human-speak. There is no mistaking a meow that means "feed me" for one that means "scratch my stomach." Has anyone who has been owned by a cat for any length of time ever confused an "it's nice sitting by the fire" meow for one that says "let me out" or "sorry, there's no way I'm going to the vet?" The answer's no. Of course, not only is cat body language less inhibited than ours, cats tend to speak in commands, which does make life easier, at least for them. The only question I can come up with that a cat might ask is, "Are you okay?" And, if you're not, the follow-up meow is usually another directive: "Here, shove over so I can snuggle up to you and make you feel better." Cats have definitely gotten the act of communication down to an exact science.
But when humans open their mouths, the screw-ups are endless. The constant mis-use of "I" for "me," for example (hint: If you don't wish for me to publicly humiliate you, never say, "Just between you and I" or "Come with Freddy and I" in my presence). And the addition of the word "very" when describing something "unique." That's the same as saying "very one-of-a-kind" which is linguistically impossible. Then there's the fact that no one seems to know what the word "irony" means. It does not mean funny or snide or coincidental or satirical or anything along those lines. If you don't believe me, here's the definition straight from The Random House Dictionary of the English Language: "The use of words to convey a meaning that is the opposite of its literal meaning." If it's raining outside and you say, "Beautiful day, isn't it," that's irony. And the reason this matters to me is that the title of this book is, to a large extent, meant to be ironic, and it's important to understand that going in. Nothing and no one lives forever. Not plants, not people, and most unfortunate of all, not cats. In some ways, "life" itself is the ultimate ironic word because to live means that, eventually, you'll die. And that realization, that experience and understanding, is partly what this book is about.
But only partly.
I'm mainly trying to convey the feeling and the strength that comes from being in contact with a truly amazing life force.
All of which is a long-winded way of explaining why my first choice for an opening didn't make the final cut. That and the fact that irony is not a concept that cats even understand. And although this book is written for humans, since cats can't read (unfortunately for me; if they could there's a reasonable chance I'd be the richest person on earth!), I didn't think it was appropriate to begin with something that went so against their nature.
A second possibility was to go for pure drama. For a long time, this was my intended first sentence:
On the day I moved into my dream apartment, I found out that my cat had cancer.
I'm sure you can see the value of that. I mean, it's definitely a grabber. And, like everything else I've ever written about Norton, it's true. But ultimately, I rejected that, too. Too sad. Too self pitying. Way too cloyingly sentimental. And definitely not what this book is about. Most certainly not what Norton is about. What you're about to read is, I hope, anything but sad. It is not about illness, it is about health. Rather than the trauma of being sick, it is about the satisfaction and the bonds that arise as we age and learn how to care for each other -- and learn how to accept that caring from others.
Anyone who has read earlier tales of life with Norton can tell you that I will almost always go for the gag -- on paper and in life - -and also that I am not a big fan of fake sentiment (several ex-girlfriends would say I'm also not a fan of real sentiment). But I am a fan of genuine emotion and, luckily for me, rarely is that exclusive of laughter. So in no way is this book depressing. It is, I hope, hilarious and joyful and as life affirming as it's possible to be without turning into a Steven Spielberg movie.
In a way, this rambling and over-thinking has actually done what my two initial openings couldn't possibly do. I did manage to bring some order, not just to this book but to my thought process. And, probably more importantly, I realized that, despite what I wrote earlier, the title is not really ironic.
The more I thought about it, the more I realized that in many ways my little gray pal will indeed, live forever. And live exactly the way he'd like to: bringing pleasure and, on occasion, even meaning into other people's lives. I guess that's why, when push came to shove, I realized that what this book really is about is quite simple.
It's about my cat Norton.
Exactly the same as the other two books. And that's why the real opening is as follows:
The wonderful thing about having a relationship with a cat -- one of the many wonderful things about having a relationship with a cat -- is that you never have a clue where that relationship will lead you . . .
(eBook)
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