Tippy the not-so-friendly ghost cat

It was just last week, as I yawned “good evening” to bedtime’s approach, that I crawled into the line-dried sheets that draped across my mattress. A nearby floor fan hummed a noisy lullaby as it wafted the smell of sunshine and summertime from the pale green sheets that had been baked stiff by July’s heat. I lay on my side as the fan cast its breeze onto my skin, evaporating the dewy condensation that glued my flesh to the sheets and pillow shams.

It was then, drifting somewhere between consciousness and sleep, that I was roused by a revelation: I was not alone.

Mama’d encountered a similar scenario weeks before.

“I thought I heard a meow,” she explained that evening over a dinner of fried pork chops, mashed potatoes and green peas. Having never cared for green peas, I’d eliminated the pungent peas and doubled my portion of potatoes.

“What’s that?” I asked, as I flattened my crispy pork chop between two flaky layers of a buttered biscuit.

“Earlier today, I thought I heard a meow,” she repeated, while our 17-year-old cat, Sassy, chomped on her pork chop scraps.

“And then I felt something rub against my leg,” Mama continued, while I searched for another pork chop among the leftovers.

“Did you give Sassy the last pork chop?” I turned to Mama, while our somewhat senile cat licked her curved, white-mittened paws and then collapsed near her food bowl.

The telephone rang, and while Mama handled the habitual dinner-time telemarketer, I frowned and settled for the remaining green peas. Meanwhile, a satisfied Sassy purred as she dozed for a cat nap.

Several interruptions followed, and it wasn’t until the dinner table was cleared that Mama finished her meal time story.

“It wasn’t Sassy?” I asked, as Mama described the rubbing sensation on her leg, and likewise, the meow she’d heard while washing dishes earlier that day.

“Sassy was outside,” Mama replied. “But of course, it could have been my imagination.”

I’d heard of ghost cats before. But I’d never considered the possibility until now, after hearing Mama’s encounter. Although Mama dismissed her experience as an over-active imagination, I deemed it paranormal cat activity.

Following Mama’s ghost cat incident, I searched for the ghost of our dearly beloved, recently-deceased cat, Tippy. I beckoned it with cat treats and “Here kitty, kitty.” Yet, after a series of unsuccessful communications, I deemed any paranormal cat activity unlikely.

That is, until the night I succumbed to slumber as the fan’s breeze combated my sweat. It wasn’t a meow that startled me from my rest, nor was it a ghost cat’s rub that alerted me of a paranormal presence.

Instead, it was the sound of a cat relieving itself.

Contentious in her last days, Tippy frequently “did her business” in my bedroom. Although I’d positioned a litter box inches from my bedroom door, Tippy seldom found use for it. Instead, she squatted in carpeted corners and occasionally aimed for walls. I assumed it was Tippy’s rebellion against a series of Mama-mandated diets.

Admittedly, it wasn’t the deceased Tippy I initially blamed for stirring my sleep. It was Sassy, not yet gone to Jesus, with whom I found fault.

“Sassy,” I groaned, flipping the switch to my bedside lamp.

But no Sassy appeared.

And so, I began my hunt. I searched beside, behind and underneath my bed. Yet, I found no feline. I assumed an all-fours position and sniffed my bedroom’s beige carpeted floor. Likewise, there was no odor indicative of a cat’s trail.

It was at that moment, pajama clad and crawling with nose pressed to the floor, that I realized what had occurred.

I’d been visited by the ghost cat.

There are those disbelievers who quantify such findings as wishful thinking, delusions, daydreams or even psychosis. And perhaps those pragmatists are correct.

Yet, who’s to say our departed pets can’t return to their earthly homes, bearing messages for their earthly caregivers. Perhaps it’s these paranormal visits that bring closure to our furry friends, allowing them to frisk forward to “the light.”

If that’s the case, what was Tippy’s message to me, as her kitty spirit squatted on my bedroom floor and relieved herself?

Never mind. I’m sure I was just dreaming.

Gina Eaves is an Epsom native, a Peace College graduate and an advertising representative at The Daily Dispatch. Her columns appear on Sundays. E-mail her at geaves@hendersondispatch.com.

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