Oreo's Tail

If walls could talk, we wouldn’t. It is my humble opinion that it is far greater to watch, to listen, to observe than it is to talk, to bolster vanity, to pontificate. But that’s just me. Perhaps an Austrian castle, or a manor in the Cotswolds, or even a polychromatic palace in Nawalgarh would have a wall with many grand stories to tell, that of princes and royal intrigue, deception and political downfall, but that isn’t what I have to offer. My stories are far more common, more relatable, and perhaps that makes them uninteresting, but I find these happenings to be magical and sad, intriguing yet mundane - fully worth the abuse and depreciation I receive in order to collect them.

Walls such as myself are rarely looked upon with any significant appeal, other than the barrier that keeps out the elements, which for some holds greater esteem than to others. In my center sits a drafty window. I am white, but not a pure white, not even pearl, I am that cheap color that no doubt had some yellow mixed in. I have been covered in tobacco essence, in fly shit and squashed mosquitoes, nail holes and crayon art are abundant, and the occasional dent, crack, or even blood is not unheard of. Each layer of degradation is covered by paint, and if you were to peel each one like an onion, you’d see the 40-year history of inhabitants that have graced this small dwelling with their presence.

Some of those that live here do their very best to make it a home, they fill it with food and colors and light, bring in old yet comfortable furniture, and somehow manage to keep that gray carpet from the seventies clean. Others treat it like a place to crash, a handout and a dump. They turn white-faced, particle board cabinets into dingy, unkempt reservoirs for dirty dishes. But, to each their own. I can say I learned something from both sides of that coin.

Since ‘73 I have witnessed enough stories to fill a library, but one from the early 2000’s comes to mind.

It was a bright spring morning when they moved in. The little girl’s mother was looking forward to having her own room in a two-bedroom, as in their last place she had slept on the couch so her daughter could have the only room. Subsidized single motherhood has few perks, but it sure does carry a lot of love through it all. The little girl had more things than I was accustomed to seeing from children here. Toys, stuffed animals, clothes, Legos. And pets! This kid had a betta fish, a hamster named Cuddles, an obnoxiously loud parakeet, and an ornery black cat that allowed her to carry him around in a blanket, swaddled like a baby. What poor kid needs that many animals? I didn’t understand it. This mother was living, waiting to exhale, but this kid got to have her own personal zoo.

Love.

In all my years of watching it unfold in front of me, I never truly grasped the concept. It seemed so impractical. It made some people completely abandon reason. But who am I to judge? I’m just a wall.

The girl and her mother had lived with me for a few months. She was playing with her toys in her room (the room I am in), plastic horses and Lincoln logs made into a barn. The hamster ran on its wheel as the little girl created a grand epic with her imagination. The cat sprawled out on the floor far enough away to not be messed with, but close enough to feel involved with the girl’s games.

We all heard a patter up the carpeted stairs. Then a voice in the doorway.

“Do you want to come downstairs for some mac n’ cheese, honey?”

Nothing puts a smile on a kid’s face like mac n’ cheese. Not sure what it is, but it must be wonderful. The little one put a pause on her games to join her mother, as did the cat, trotting behind them.

“Do you want to close your door so Oreo can’t get in there and ruin what you’ve made?” asked her mother.

“Yeah, good idea.”

Oreo the cat was rubbing on her legs as the little girl moved to shut her door. As the knob clicked shut, a mad yowl shook the upstairs hallway. All I could see was the tip of a cat’s tail stuck between the closed door and the wall, near the bottom hinge.

There was a delay as the mother and her daughter tried to understand the dramatic sound. Once they did, the door swung open and the hurt cat took off downstairs to hide from his abuser. Bent tail and all.

The little girl’s face was stark, and then turned red as tears came pouring out of big blue eyes. She was hyperventilating over the fact that she had hurt her cat, the kid couldn’t even find her breath. Her mother picked her up and brought her to her bed, holding her tight and letting her cry.

“His tail is broken!” cried the little girl.

“I’m sure it’s not broken, he’ll be okay.”

“No he won’t.”

“I’ll go check on him, I’ll be right back.”

Her mother left to check on the cat. I watched the little girl anguish, clutching a pillow and fretting over the animal. A minute before she had been perfectly content, the next her world was falling apart because she had hurt her friend. I wanted to comfort her somehow, but alas it is not a skill I possess.

When her mother returned, she found her child just as she had left her, with a blotched and shiny face.

“He’s okay,” she said sitting down on the bed, “he’s hiding but his tail is okay. Just give him some time.”

“He’ll never forgive me,” the girl babbled out.

“Of course he will,”

Her mother once again took the child in her arms, holding her tight.

“How do you know?”

“Because he loves you.”

“He won’t now.”

“That’s not how love works. A big part of love is forgiveness.”

“Do you forgive Dad?”

There was a pause before she replied.

“Well, I’m working on it. But yes.”

“Do you love him?”

“I’ll always love him.”

Three days later Oreo jumped back into bed with his little girl. She pulled him close and whispered “I’m sorry” into his fur. And he purred.

I always wondered why the girl didn’t question her mom further. I mean, if love is forgiveness and she loved the girl’s father, why didn’t she return to him?

But I guess, that wasn’t the point.