Poom

Photo by Karolina Grabowska

Mom named our cat Puma because he was black. Later she nicknamed him Poom because it rhymed with zoom, and he did a lot of that. 

Poom was an indoor cat. He spent most of his nine lives stuck in a single-wide trailer, although I never considered him a prisoner as much as I did of myself. Like me, he got in trouble a lot, but mostly for scratching the side of Dad’s leather chair or climbing the living room curtains. And when he attacked the iron cord while Mom pressed a shirt. Only a blast of Niagara Spray Starch could stop him. Tired from his frisky escapades, Poom claimed the sunny spot in front of the sliding glass door to bathe and nap.

Mom always worried about Poom, mostly that he’d escape from our trailer. She believed he wasn’t smart enough to survive in the outside world like a feral cat. Her worst fear was driving to Alpha Beta for groceries and seeing Poom squished on the boulevard or that he might get a stinky abscess from a catfight. Mom didn’t think his freedom was worth the worry or an expensive vet bill to fix. A couple of times, he did manage to escape, but he never went far. If the sliding door was left open just wide enough for his paw, he’d work the gap until he squeezed through, and then I’d have to go find him.

Poom escaped on our last day in Happy Acres. It was moving day and someone left the slider wide open. And it wasn’t me! Mom didn’t know how long he’d been gone and sent me to find him as usual. First, I looked under the trailer, his favorite spot. He liked rolling in the dirt and turning his shiny black coat into a dull gray. He wasn’t there. I checked inside the empty shed that once housed our bikes and along the fence line behind our trailer, but no Poom. I searched the butterfly bush, Penny and Billy’s yard, the pool area, and the playground behind my trailer row but could not find our cat. 

“Poooommm, here, kitty, kitty, kitty.” 

Tired of searching and feeling a bit hoarse from yelling, I sat on the playground swing to catch my breath. I hadn’t been there for more than a moment when Mom’s head popped up above the fence behind our trailer like in a theatre puppet show. 

“What are you doing,” she said. “I sent you to find the cat, not horse around!” 

I shot like a rocket out of that swing.

“We’re leaving in less than an hour, for god’s sake! Find that damn cat, now!” 

“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty, kitty,” I stammered.

I scanned the overgrown field next to the Happy Acres playground through the tall chain link fence. Mom said that field was a fire hazard waiting to happen, especially nowadays, with so many kids playing with matches. 

I was one of those kids. 

Mostly it was a field of tall, dry grass, littered with jalopies and appliances that had outlived their usefulness. 

My friend Monica once told me the field was haunted because her dad said so. According to her, three boys built an elaborate underground fort with tunnels in the middle of the field. Everyone told them not to do it, saying it was too dangerous, but they didn’t listen. 

A ginormous thunderstorm rolled in one summer day, turning the sky pitch black. While the boys burrowed like gophers, unaware of the impending danger, a lightning bolt struck the ground. The earth shook, and their fort caved in, burying the boys alive. Not even a backhoe could save them. 

Monica swore to God their ghosts roamed the field on full moons, clawing at the sky and gasping for air. I always doubted her story, but I never felt it was my place to argue or admit I wanted to build an underground fort.

“Pooooommmmm. Here kitty, kitty, kitty.” 

Nothing.

I didn't know where else to look since I wasn't allowed outside our trailer park. I returned to the swing and pumped with all my strength, knowing it would be my last ride. Nasty Boy's song played in my head as it always did. Before I knew it, the Happy Acres swimming pool looked tiny from above, like a blue puddle surrounded by paper umbrellas. I pumped even higher, and soon, the concrete sidewalk and the broad leaf ivy covering the fence line behind my trailer row met me on the downswing. Once more, I soared above the clover patch where I'd fed bread heels to the Robins and sang my Partridge Family songs.   

“Meow!”

I flew out of that swing as soon as it was safe to bail. 

“Meow, meow!”

The familiar cry came from behind the fence, just beyond the plum tree.

On the other side of the wooden fence, where the plum tree hung over our playground, loomed a spooky old house with an unruly yard. Sometimes, if I swung high enough, I could catch a glimpse of the old hag who lived there, hunched over like a witch. She had a tiny black dog, instead of a cat, that barked whenever I picked a plum from my side of the fence, as if I were stealing. Mom told me that any plum hanging over the fence belonged to Happy Acres, and I could eat as many as I wanted, as long as they weren’t green.

That fence was too high and slippery to climb. The gaps were too tight to peek through. I jumped back on the swing, facing the fence this time, and pumped until my legs burned and I could see into the witch’s yard.  

“Meow, meow, meow.”

It was Poom, all right, tiny as a blackbird at the top of a giant Sycamore tree right smack in the middle of her yard. 

“Come down right now, you dumb cat,” I yelled.

Poom tried several times to back down the tree but couldn’t. He ended up climbing higher with each try until the branches thinned and swayed under his weight.

I couldn’t understand why he chose to climb that particular tree. If he had climbed the plum tree, I could’ve stood on my bike seat and pulled him right out. Or, I could’ve climbed after him if he had gone up the Mulberry tree. Instead, that dumb cat was stuck at the top of the tallest tree in the neighborhood.

I remembered watching a TV show about a little girl whose orange tabby cat got stuck up a tree. Her mother called the fire department, and within minutes, there were sirens, flashing lights, and a red ladder truck. It was quite a spectacle. Those firefighters rescued that poor little tiger kitty from that tree, and everyone applauded their bravery.  

I ran home and begged Mom to call the fire department. Instead, she followed me back to the playground and stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head about Poom.

“We’re not calling the fire department, for God’s sake,” she protested. “They have far more important things to do than get a cat out of a tree. Just keep an eye on him,” she said. “He’ll figure out his way down eventually.” Then, under her breath, she added, “Or we’ll leave without him.” Mom left to finish packing.

I felt sick to my stomach. How could Mom say such a thing? Leave Happy Acres without Poom? He was our family! Sure, I ignored him most of the time. His vicious attacks scared me, and he had a weird habit of eating mint dental floss. But I couldn’t imagine our family without him.    

“Poom! You gotta come down from that tree,” I pleaded. “You can’t stay in Happy Aces forever. Don’t you want to live in a condominium instead of a trailer? Mom said my new room is twice as big as my old one. I’ll get to sleep on a real bed, too, instead of an army cot.”

Poom wouldn’t budge.

“You’re not the only scaredy cat, you know. I’m scared, too. I’m afraid to leave Happy Acres, go to a new school, and make new friends.”

Poom swished his tail and barked at a bird on a nearby branch.

“Moving to Fremont isn’t that bad,” I said. “It’s really nice there and we’ll be only an hour away from Grandma Libby’s house.” 

Mom snuck up on me. “It’s time to go, now,” she said. “Your father spoke with the nice woman who lives in that big house on the other side of the fence. She told your father she’s always wanted a cat like Poom, and promised to take very good care of him.”

“Every witch wants a black cat,” I mumbled.

“Meow, meow, meow!” Poom cried as I walked home for the last time.

Mom put her arm around me. “I know how you feel,” she said softly. 

I thought for a moment she might understand until she added, “But don’t worry, we’ll get a new cat once we’re settled. I’ve always wanted a Siamese.”

My mind went blank.

Brother sat in the Dodge with his seatbelt fastened. He’d probably been there for a while because he was anxious to move to Fremont. Mom bribed him with a promise to visit the Exploratorium in San Francisco to see the Apollo space capsule once we got settled. I climbed next to him and wiped tears and snot along my sleeve. We looked at each other and didn’t have to say anything. 

Dad locked the sliding glass door to our single-wide for the last time and latched the chain link gate to our trailer space. That morning, Happy Acres seemed quieter than usual, probably because everyone already said their goodbyes the day before. Mom finished her cigarette and squished it in her favorite abalone shell. Dad pulled her close, whispered into her ear and wrapped himself around her. 

Mom slid her abalone shell under the front seat and climbed into the Dodge. She hid her red eyes behind her over-sized sunglasses. After tightening her scarf around her curlers, she took a deep breath, exhaled, and said happily, “Fremont, here we come!” 

I lost sight of Poom atop that Sycamore tree once we turned on Robert’s Lane toward Highway 99. It wasn’t until we reached Delano that I finally ran out of tears. For the rest of the journey, I stared into the shiny hubcaps of passing big rigs, hypnotized in my emptiness.

Maybe Poom was better off without us. He was free from Mom, and I envied him for that.