The miracle was that, within all this space and possibility, Homer was safe. There were things he could count on here, despite how big everything was. Food and water were available in abundance, and could be found predictably in the same spot every day. In this new world, an unusually loud noise meant opportunity, not danger. He could fall asleep at night knowing that no predator would harm him while he slept, and wake up each morning in the arms of someone who loved him.
To say that he must have regarded these things as miraculous would be assuming too much similarity between a kitten’s mind and a human’s. If anything, I was the one who thought in terms of miracles whenever I contemplated what his life had been—and what it would be still, if not for the quirk of fate that had brought us together. But Homer’s happiness was there, and it was indisputable. I had moments of sheer, unreasoning joy in witnessing it, but at the same time it impressed upon me a sense of responsibility, accompanied as it was by the knowledge that it fell to me to ensure the safety that enabled his joy.
“I will always keep you safe, little boy,” I would murmur, caressing his fur while he slept.
Upon hearing about Homer for the first time, Melissa’s father had asked us whether we planned to get a Seeing Eye dog for our blind cat. He’d meant it as a joke, of course, but the question remained as to how I would teach Homer to get around, giving him as free a rein as possible in this new, bigger world while minimizing any of the perils that world might hold for him.
I had spent the days before bringing Homer to live with us trying to think through what it would take to blind-kitten-proof the house. I bought soft felt caps for the sharp edges of tables and bed frames, invested in childproof locks for cabinets where cleansers and other hazardous materials resided, bought childproof latches for toilet lids (a small, eyeless kitten who accidentally fell in and couldn’t see his way out might drown, I thought), and plugged up crevices around the entertainment center where a blind kitten might wedge himself in or hopelessly entangle himself in wires and extension cords.
It was impossible to anticipate everything, but I ended up being glad I had spent so much time thinking about things beforehand—because Homer was impatient to discover and claim every nook and cranny. Homer solved the Seeing Eye dog problem by utilizing me as his Seeing Eye human—following my footsteps so closely everywhere I walked that, if I happened to stop short, his little nose ran straight into my ankle.
“I feel like Mary,” I said to Melissa. When she looked at me quizzically, I added, “You know … and everywhere that Mary went, the lamb was sure to go.”
At first, I thought Homer trailed me with so much determination because he was afraid to investigate on his own. Patty had warned that Homer was likely to be more timid and less independent than other cats. “But he won’t know that he’s blind,” she’d added. “It’s not like the other cats are going to tell him, Hey, you’re blind!”
It was soon apparent, though, that Homer didn’t follow me so doggedly because he was nervous about exploring on his own. It was simply the most efficient way of learning his way around, of discovering where the nemeses of table legs and umbrella stands were lurking to trip him up. Leaving a pair of discarded shoes or a wet umbrella lying in the middle of the floor went from being an act of carelessness to bordering on animal abuse. I stepped over small things that changed place from day to day—but Homer, who walked in a persistent straight line wherever I had just been, would trip and halt in the confusion of an obstructed path that, only the day before, had been clear. Was this here yesterday? I don’t remember this being here yesterday. I’ll admit I had always tended toward the sloppier side of the neatness spectrum. But living with Homer required the discipline of order, and I soon learned habits of tidiness that would come to define my adult life.
In addition to not knowing he was blind, Homer had also clearly never been informed of his “underachiever” status. He got into absolutely everything—anything I was doing, he had to be a part of. If I was cleaning out a closet, Homer was next to me, digging away at the stacks of old clothes or boxes. If I was making a sandwich, Homer would scuttle up the side of my denim-clad leg (to this day, there’s nothing he loves climbing so much as a pair of jeans) and propel himself onto the kitchen counter. If I was sitting on the couch, he would scale the side of my body until he reached the top of my head, resting there for as long as I could maintain my posture and hold my head level. Catching sight of our reflection in a darkened window one night, with the cone-wearing Homer curled up atop me, I thought we looked like some sort of futuristic half-human/half-satellite cyborg. Homer frequently fell asleep right in the middle of whatever he was doing, as kittens are wont to do, one paw clutching a pilfered scrap of paper or wrapped around his food bowl, like the lesser characters in Sleeping Beauty who, enchanted along with her, slumbered in the act of threading a needle or salting their soup.
By following and exploring so relentlessly, Homer got to know our home astonishingly quickly. Melissa and I were astounded at how, within only a couple of days, the only time Homer bumped into anything—in the whole house—was when he got into one of what we called his “whirling dervish” modes, where he would hyperactively spin around like the Tasmanian Devil until he’d lost his sense of where he was in space. At such times, the clomp! of the front of his cone connecting with a wall or table leg could be heard echoing through the house.
There was only one limitation placed on Homer’s freedom and happiness in those early days, and that was when it came to his eating habits. Melissa and I learned that some official discipline was in order the first time we prepared a meal for ourselves in Homer’s presence. We had just settled ourselves onto opposite ends of the couch with dishes of food when Homer leapt onto the couch and unceremoniously climbed directly onto my plate, hungrily grabbing whatever tidbits were closest to his mouth.
I was reminded of an early scene in The Miracle Worker when, before Annie Sullivan’s arrival, Helen Keller would walk around the family dinner table and put her hands into everybody’s plates, helping herself to whatever she wanted. This, clearly, was unacceptable behavior, and I decided to nip it in the bud.
I lifted Homer up and placed him on the floor. “No, Homer,” I said, in a tone that left no room for argument.
Homer cocked his head back and forth in a way I would soon become familiar with—it meant that he was trying to figure out from my tone of voice what I wanted from him. He did it a few times before responding with the plaintive, cheeping Eeeeuu that kittens make—the kind that seems to require the entire force of their body to produce. Reaching up the side of the couch with his two front paws, he repeated, indignantly this time: Eeeeuu!
Melissa and I couldn’t help laughing, but we refused to give in on this one point. “I said no!” I told him.
Homer sat for a moment with his face turned up toward us, as if waiting for a sign of leniency. Then, with a small sigh, he prowled away toward his own food in the other room. There was a certain amount of defiance in his step, as if he were consciously keeping his kittenish waddling down to a minimum. Fine, then. I have my own perfectly good food right here …
IT WAS HOMER’S first lesson in discipline, and it was made tougher to reinforce by the indulgence of our inner circle of friends, who came over eagerly to meet him. If there was one thing Homer dearly loved, it was meeting new people. And if there was one thing the people who met Homer loved, it was letting him do whatever he wanted. Suddenly Homer was part of an extended family, what Melissa and I referred to as “the itty bitty kitty committee,” which included innumerable indulgent godparents who were perfectly happy to sneak him bits of tuna or turkey or meatballs from their plates. They also showered him with the toys they’d brought over for him: toys from their own childhoods and toys purchased specifically for cats; toys that hummed, buzzed, rang with attached bells, or were otherwise made enticing by their ability to produce sound. Everybody, myself included, assumed that playthings with bells and whistles—and not the visual stimuli of feathers and doodads—would hold the most appeal for a blind kitten.