Calico Jack
How we got here, anyhow.
May 10, 2022
It seems every time we move, we lose a cat. God bless Monkey, Millie, and Goose. First, it was the divorce. Honestly, there was no helping that. Except it’s not like the cat moved out with their dad. Instead, Monkey packed up for a stay at a “cat farm up north.” Let’s just say vet bills for elderly fur babies are hard on a single mom. But last time, in East Van, it took exactly one week till little Millie slipped out the door into darkness and the Eastside ravine where coyotes lay in wait. And after you’ve sat the kids down to tell them, again, “the cat’s not coming back,” it might seem callous to just replace and replay, but the heart has its reasons. After all, we only went to the Cat Cafe for bubble tea. Because we love bubble tea and we love cats.
The Catoro Cafe is an accessible cat rescue off Broadway in Vancouver—cats and bubble tea, together at last. A great concept, but a strange one? I can imagine the pitch to investors:
“So we’re going to have bubble tea, and also cats.”
“Why?” they’d ask.
“Well, because we’ll lure them with the overpriced average tasting bubble tea, then bait & switch with a British Shorthair. No one will see it coming.”
“Well, probably they will. There’s large windows.”
“No! We’ll keep the best cats in the back room, then surprise, and they literally will not see it coming!”
Not a bad business plan. And the cats were pretty good, though not as good as the bubble tea, until, I swear to God, emerging from the backroom, in the arms of a bubble tea maker/rescue attendant was the most beautiful long-haired calico I’d ever seen, and very unlike the mediocre cats lurking in the showroom. She had this black patch over her left eye, like a little pirate, aye, but the way her orange, white, and black blended, the kids begged to call her Pumpkin Spice, a popular fall flavour, though not of bubble tea.
Getting her home was the easy part, then came the naming, in earnest. There was Daphne—her birth name from the mythologically inclined folks at the rescue. And though we did live on Pandora Street, Daphne was giving off serious Bridge lady vibes, not suited to my little Spice Girl. But my partner won this round—he’d always wanted to name a cat Lucy, which then morphed into Lucy Goose, and reached its final iteration as just plain Goose. I pleaded for Goose to stick. I said, sure it’s a little silly, but, well, cats don’t last forever.
And then we moved. From historical Burnaby Heights to a flashy suburban townhouse in South Surrey. I had to sell the idea of this move to my spouse who hated the thought of losing a place of heritage, tradition and fine dining. After all, we lived on beautiful Pandora Street, off Madison Avenue—steps from the historic “swinging girl” atop Cioffi’s delicatessen. So I said, don’t worry—we’ll find our special places. After a while, we won’t even remember The Heights. Then I revealed our very memorable address, which happened to be #167 2450 161A Street, postal code V3Z 8K4. And I said, surely this place is known for something special, something for which no other city has bragging rights. And it turned out, the neighbouring borough of Newton had a local crime rate that was 26% higher than the national average. Also, there’s an entire genre of jokes that rely on a knowing delivery of the phrase “Surrey girl.” Still, we moved.
Then two weeks later, Goose got sick. With a watery infection in her left eye, our little Pumpkin Patch was looking pretty pathetic. So I brought Calico Jack to the vet to have a gander. His expression revealed this was no laughing matter. He actually bent down and whispered the diagnosis, and in that moment, I realized this would be an almost unspeakable and certainly life long scenario for our pet. But when I told my partner that our cat had the clap, he thought I was making a Surrey joke. Because how does a girl who can’t leave the house find herself in that… situation? Was there an old Tom out on shore leave at the Cat Cafe? Come on! Vet bills aren’t cheap, and someone was responsible for my cat having chlamydia! I was fixing to shake down this piece of chat. Then I remembered. They’d kept Goose in the back room. In quarantine. They knew!
It takes a certain kind of person to sell a cat with chlamydia, but Goose has found her forever home, regardless, and I think we can keep her going for a while yet. Goose’ll stick. Because this time, we definitely will not be moving. Until June, when we’ll board a ferry and cross the beautiful Georgia Straight, with resident killer whales launching on all sides, as we sail into our new lives on Vancouver Island, home of an explosive population of cougars. What could possibly go wrong?