Scouting for acceptance

Last year, 2011, was a year of some loss. The mother of my best friend for 30 years  died in February. Known affectionately as Joanie, she was, in my teen years at least, much like a second mom. My uncle, my father's older brother Jack who accompanied him on his maiden voyage from Northern Ireland to New York, left this world in September. And my childhood friend, Matthew died in November after a long hospital stay where he lost a grueling battle to auto-immune cirrhosis.

We also lost two pets. Our round 11-year old gray cat, KC (short for Kitty Cat, the name given her by a 3-year old Rachel) died at the end of August. She was thin and wobbly those last few months. When she began gnawing off the end of her own tail, and not eating or drinking, we knew her days were numbered, poor thing. We put her down on August 29th, my birthday. More surprising was the death of our beloved orange boy cat, Jasper. He died very suddenly one spring afternoon, leaving us all shocked and heartbroken. He was very special - the kind of cat you love to come home to. Desperately cute, irresistible in his fine, feline elegance. He was super cuddly, a lap cat extraordinaire - gentle, sweet, loving. He was only 4 years old.


My daughter Rachel and my husband Andy would not allow adoption of another cat until a respectable amount of mourning time elapsed. Three months after Jasper died, I convinced them to adopt a kitten by sending them a picture of Ferris, posing in a mailbox. We went to PetSmart to meet the rescue agency rep, pay our fee, and pick up our little fellow. In the car on the way there, we came up with a name. Andy recommended Jasper. Whether this was for ease of remembering what to call it - or because he thought by giving it the same name, it would resemble Jasper in every other way - is unclear. I suggested keeping Ferris, liking the reference to one of my favorite fictional characters, Mr. Bueller. Rachel had just finished reading "To Kill a Mockingbird" and offered the name Atticus. Andy and I vetoed it, saying three syllables were too many for an animal that size. We settled on Scout - the rascally female character from the same book.

Though also orange and male, Scout is the anti-Jasper. Where Jasper was dainty, Scout is brutish - klutzy, bow-legged, and smelly. He has a penchant for passing gas and cleaning himself with loud, indelicate slurps. The first few days after we brought him home, we found him sleeping in his litter box! He rarely likes to cuddle, preferring rather to jump on your head during a dervish-like frenzy. Jasper was easy to love...and I mean, easy! Even people who don't like cats couldn't resist him. Scout is quick with his claws, malodorous, lacking in stealth, and ornery. His is black sheep to Jasper's golden child. And he most likely has a serious kitty complex for all the times he hears us declare things like "Jasper wouldn't do that!", "Jasper would do that." "You're no Jasper, Scout!" and, as he stares blankly while you pat your lap, hoping he'll curl up there for a while: "I miss Jasper!"

So I am forced to think that Scout is our lesson in acceptance; forcing us to love him exactly the way he is. Not as a second-rate replacement of a beloved pet, but as a new member of our imperfect family.