Carol

When I was twenty-three, my mother bought me a cat for my birthday.  She called me, awash with excitement, and asked if she could come by my apartment to bring me a surprise.  Though she lived about 45 minutes away, she arrived eleven minutes later holding an orange cat she introduced as Carol.  “Mom, how nice,” I genuinely exclaimed. “You got a cat.”  Grinning from ear to ear, she shouted, “Happy Birthday!” as she thrust Carol into my life. 

She went on to recall the many times in my childhood that I’d dreamt of having an orange cat called Carol, named for my favorite comedian, Carol Burnett.  For years, she remembered, I longed to have this cat and had begged her to make my dream a reality.  “Mom,” I said, “this is the nicest birthday surprise I’ve ever gotten!”  I turned Carol around to look into her eyes and she yawned indifferently.  “Well, I figured now that your dad is gone, so are his allergies.  You can finally have your Carol!” she explained.  While that was technically true, she seemed a little too delighted to be putting it that way.

“Don’t you just love him?” she asked.  “Who? Dad?” I wondered.  “No, Carol!” Mom shouted.  “Oh, Carol is a boy cat?  Of course, I do.  He’s beautiful!  Very orange.”  My mother stood there for the next few minutes staring at Carol and me, mouth agape, like a child staring at the sky in anticipation of a fireworks display.  Not sure what to do next, I sat down to pet Carol.  As he began to purr, my mother bathed in the warm glow of her benevolence.  I thanked her repeatedly as I clumsily negotiated Carol’s loose coat and wondered if my apartment building allowed pets.  “You are very welcome, my darling.  Happy Birthday!  Now, I’m going to get out of your way, but I hope you and Carol have a wonderful day together,” my mother said as she made her way to the door, stealing her final glances with pride. 

The moment she was gone, I called my older sister, Jenny, to find out if she had any memory of my childhood prayers for a Carol cat.  I, for one, had no recollection of any of it.  “What in the world are you talking about, Evan?” Jenny replied in shock.  “Tell me this is some kind of weird joke--because if it’s not, I’m calling her right now.  She actually bought you a live cat?”  I spent the next few minutes repeating everything to Jenny a second time and then begging her not to call our mother or say anything to anyone until I’d had time to properly investigate. 

“So, you’re just going to keep this cat and let mom believe she’s made your dreams come true?” Jenny asked.  “Only for now,” I said.  “I just need to be certain it wasn’t me and see if I can find out who she is confusing me with before I say anything to Mom.  You should have seen how happy she was.”  Jenny followed with the inevitable question, “Do you even like Carol Burnett, Evan?”  I wasn’t sure.  “Only for now,” I answered. 

That was eight years ago.  I never learned who wanted a Carol cat or how my mother got the idea it was me, but I also couldn’t ever find the nerve to break it to her.  Every birthday since, she has brought a new framed picture of Carol and me, which is starting to make me, and my apartment look insane.  Jenny, on the other hand, uses my birthday as another chance for me to buy her silence, which I obviously continue to do.   Unfortunately, Carol and I never really made a connection.  I tried, for a time, to figure out his favorite hobbies and pastimes, but he never seemed interested in anything, particularly not me.  The only time he pays me any attention is when my mother comes to visit.  I suppose that’s what we have most in common—a shared desire to convince my mother we’re happy together.  I just wish I wasn’t so allergic to cats.

--Written for “An Everyday Con”