Shawla
My Cat’s Love Affair

One of the cats I had growing up had sex with my Mom’s shawl. Harry was a tabby cat and the forgotten shawl was of similar color. We named her Shawla.

He had a determined grip on her in his mouth, dragged her between his legs, plopped down with his red rocket ignited, and moved around with her for 10 to 15 minutes. He drooled a little.

I tried to yank it out of its mouth a few times. He always growled.

“Rhid, leave him alone,” my Mom urged.

I was young enough to think sex was intense hugging and excessive kissing. My cat was way more mature than me and he was getting after it, quite often.

Harry was one of four cats in our house. The rest were girls. He’d parade around the house with Shawla in front of Callie, Emma, and Molly – all of which were spayed, so their lust for Harry was subdued by longing hope.

“Harrison, please. Let’s go out for once,” Shawla would plead.

When it was movie night, everyone comfortably settled in on the couch or the two chairs. Eventually, we heard a slight drag enter the room. Harry carried Shawla between his legs into the middle of the rug. We paused the movie. He laid down and got to it. Shawla was clustered in his mouth as his paws kneeded the rest of her limp body. Harry was voracious. He didn’t give a damn that his red rocket pointed toward the ceiling or had an audience.

He performed on Christmas morning a few times. After he played with all the bows and ribbons, he brought her into the room to meet the family.

The sex couldn’t be initiated by us. I’d drop Shawla right in front of him and he’d turn the other way because he planned on napping then. When he did feel frisky, he slowly seduced her with
his paws.

We found Shawla all over the house. Harry carried her up and down the stairs, with a train behind him. I rummaged through toys in the corner of the basement and she’d be draped over my LEGOs, or right in the middle of the mud room floor, waiting for me to get home from school like a golden retriever.

During Shawla’s prime, one of my mom’s curlers somehow got entangled within her tasseled yarn. Apparently, she wanted to spruce herself up. She was never washed, just kicked around. Her days of being draped over the chair in the living room were over, and certainly were the days of being draped over my mom’s shoulders.

My Dad is retired now and is chipping away at cleaning his basement. A lot of stuff was carried over from the old house that was never sorted or thrown out. A box with our burned Napster CD’s sits on top of a dresser with old mittens and VHS tapes.

After eating dinner with him and my wife, Joanie, recently, he walked back up from the basement. He presented Shawla.

“I found her the other day.”

“Oh my god.”

It had been over 20 years since I’d last seen the invertebrate lover of my first cat.

“Do you want her?” Dad asked.

“I don’t know. She’s pretty gross. I don’t want to throw her away though.”

I held her up with two fingers as if I might catch something. The curler was still there. Good for you Shawla.

 

Rhidian Pentz: “I have written a memoir of essays about the emotional and humorous moments of my childhood. I live with my wife Joanie, my dog Annie, and have a baby on the way. I am a video editor and writer, but exploring the mountains and woods nearby is something I enjoy year round as it helps clear the mind. On days of unfavorable weather, I read or sort my Star Wars card collection.”