Four Kittens on the Road to Heaven

I didn’t know that Pearl was blind.

After several months of walking her granddaughter Amy’s dogs, we’d gotten to know each other pretty well. Pearl was frail and spent most of her time at home listening to a police radio; because she lived in the crime-ridden city of East Palo Alto, many of the broadcasts involved shootings and pit bull fights. After listening, she’d advise me where not to walk the dogs that day. I enjoyed her company very much, and it seemed we always had a lot to talk about. This day, we were discussing nationality. I said something about being Irish-American, and she replied, “Do you have red hair?”

“Excuse me?” I asked.

“Do you have red hair, and freckles?”

I replied that I did, and felt a bit strange, because my hair is not just reddish but bright red, and my rosy freckled cheeks can be seen for miles. Sensing my discomfort she laughed and said she was vision impaired, almost completely blind, but she got around all right with the help of her granddaughter. The conversation continued and moved, as it often did with clients’ family members, to pets. It was then she told me the most interesting story.

Pearl grew up in a very different world, one without birth control for humans and animals alike. Her family was large, as were most families at the time, and many sadly died young of diseases and accidents. People didn’t bother with adoption agencies in those days, she explained; unwanted babies were often given, or sold, to childless couples. The animals weren’t so lucky; spaying and neutering of pets was unheard of, so the unfortunate method of getting rid of unwanted puppies or kittens was to drown them in a sack, or dump them somewhere far from home and hope they died or became someone else’s problem. Pearl’s family were farmers, and like all farmers they needed cats to keep down the rodent population which could destroy hay and grain stores.

Pearl’s favorite cat Mollie had just given birth to a lovely litter of kittens, two calicos and two orange tabbies. She snuck into the barn every day to play with them, dreading their fate. One day she entered the barn and they were gone. Mollie was crying and looking all over. When she asked her father what happened, he said he didn’t know, and his face had the expression saying "Don’t ask about it any more." Like lots of other things, some topics just weren’t discussed. Pearl said nothing more, but when night fell she snuck outside, climbed into her father’s car, and drove away into the countryside. She was only 13, but at that age most farm kids knew how to drive. There was only one real road leading away from their farm, so she figured she had a pretty good idea where those kittens had been dumped. Her gamble paid off, and after a long drive she spotted them, eyes glowing by the light of the head lamps. She carefully rounded them up, placed them in the car, and drove home.

The next morning, Pearl’s parents did not ask where she had been, nor did they question the reappearance of the kittens. They probably figured she’d endangered herself enough by driving off alone into the night, and they just let it go. The kittens thrived and lived long lives on the farm. When I asked Pearl why she had taken such a risk, chancing not only the dangers of the night but her parents’ wrath, she grinned and replied, “Well, I figured there was already enough on the road to Heaven for me to trip over, and I didn’t want those kittens there too!”

Pearl’s last day on earth was a happy one. We enjoyed the usual afternoon tea and conversation with many laughs. Pearl said that, despite her heart trouble, she was feeling especially good that day, almost euphoric. At some point I looked at the clock and couldn’t believe it said 3PM. “Yikes, I’d better get on the road!” I said, rising from my chair. She was all smiles as she said good-bye.

At 9PM I got a call from Amy. “Grandma passed,” was all she could say. I later learned the details; when Amy arrived home from work at 6PM, Pearl said she was feeling lightheaded. She insisted a good night’s sleep would put her right, but Amy took her to the hospital. By the time they arrived she was losing consciousness. As the hospital staff wheeled her away, she waved frantically for Amy to come and hear something.

Bending low she said, “What is it, Grandma?”

In a whisper she said, “Don’t forget to call Brigid [with next week's dog walking schedule],” and they wheeled her away. Her heart stopped minutes later.

With the loss of Grandma’s pension, Amy had to economize and could no longer afford dog walking. I sadly arrived for my last visit two days after Pearl had passed away. Before leaving I touched each precious thing of hers: her cane, her Bible (which she could no longer read but still kept in the living room), her police radio, the little tin of cookies we had dipped into just days before. As I touched each thing I said good-bye, and by the time I stepped out the door I was no longer crying. I had a wonderful vision in my mind of Pearl walking down that long road from her family farm, not in darkness but in the midday sun, with Heaven in the distance and the road lined with old friends including two calicos and two orange tabbies, waiting not to trip her up but to lead her home. A smile on her face, she reaches down and strokes them, then walks on.