WHEN I first met Buddy, I was twenty-five. I’d already finished college, had my first degree-related job, got married, quit that job, packed up, and headed west on a travel adventure with my husband, Mike. We spent months traveling through the central northwest of the United States and Canada. Now we were settling down to begin the next chapter of our lives on Bobwhite Lane at the Signature Apartments and Townhomes in Silverdale, Washington.
We were so excited to move into our first living space as a married couple. This was the official threshold I got carried across as a “bride” and I found it to be very modern compared to where we lived previously, which had been a tent for the last 4 months.
Part of the reason we moved to Silverdale was because Mike could practice medicine as a travel doctor close to where I had found work. At that time, I was very interested in Habitat for Humanity and learning to build homes. I got myself hired by C. Payne Construction and began working for them as a laborer during the week, and in Tacoma for Habitat for Humanity on the weekends. Mike worked at the Naval Hospital in Bremerton.
We quickly found our new city-dwelling neighbors to be somewhat less outgoing and friendly than we were used to. A nod seemed to be acceptable, an occasional (but subdued) “hello” was okay, but an enthusiastic greeting was returned with suspicion. I was raised in the healthful, hearty Upper Peninsula of Michigan where everyone – whether you know them or not – thinks nothing of shouting a friendly “hello” when you pass in the street. I thought it was like that everywhere. No matter, we made friends with the people we worked with and spent most of our time-off exploring coastal Washington.
I did succeed in making one friend at our newlywed apartment complex and that was a beautiful, long-haired, blue-eyed cat. This friendly creature seemed to hang around in the vicinity of our place and we commented several times that it must live close by. That thought was soon replaced by, “Do you think this cat used to live IN our apartment?” Because, every day this lovely creature would walk along the sidewalk that connected all of the units in our complex, wander in towards our glass front door, and then parade back and forth, arching its back, rubbing its sides along the window pane, looking at us, begging to be let inside. We’d usually go outdoors to pet and play with it. We never saw anyone claim it or heard anyone call it. The cat just seemed to live outside all of the time.
There were occasional weekend days when Mike was working at the base and I was left to my own devices. With only one vehicle, I had few entertainment options. On one of those days, when our cat visitor was looking especially appealing to my socially-starved self, and was persistently scratching at the window, I caved in and opened the door. This time, instead of me going out to her, I let her in to me.
She was a gracious guest. She wandered around inside for a while looking at things, rubbed against my ankles, eventually growing bored which she demonstrated by making her way back to the door and asking to be let out. Of course, the next day, it was easy to have this inside method of interaction happen again, and thus it became our new norm. When I spied the cat at our door, I would open it. She would sometimes stay, sometimes not. It seemed that her favorite pastime was lying on the kitchen floor watching me.
Mike was enthusiastic about the new arrangement and we both commented, numerous times, on how the cat seemed to be more like a dog: loving the outdoors, demonstrating devotion, liking to play and be petted, and was very good at showing and receiving affection. We hypothesized about her ownership, observing that she was well-fed, brushed, and mannered. Still, we had no clue where her home was.
This went on for several months. One day, Mike and I were enjoying playing with our cat friend in the living room when we heard someone yelling outside. We shrugged, ignoring the sound until we heard it several more times. I went to the door and listened.
“Buddy!”
“Buddeeee!”
The yeller seemed to be walking our way. I’m not sure why, but I suddenly felt very guilty, which made me quickly shut the blinds on our door. The voice continued towards us then seemed to stop in the vicinity of our apartment, continuing the call.
“Buddy!”
Meanwhile, the cat made a beeline for our door and was hovering at my ankles, clearly begging to get out. As the caller continued yelling, the cat started meowing in response.
“Shhhh …” I whispered energetically to the cat, as I peeked outside through the slats of the blinds.
“Shoot!” I panic-whispered to Mike, dropping the blind, “They’re right outside!”
“You better let her out!” Mike urged.
I peeked again, waiting for the person to move away. When they headed to the right, I quietly opened the door. The cat, Buddy, apparently, shot through the door directly to his owner. I heard, “There you are!” and quietly eased the door shut.
Twirling around, I looked at Mike. Both of us had our mouths and eyes wide open. We were so busted by Buddy’s owner! We dove towards each other and dissolved in helpless giggles on the floor.
“What do we do now?” I asked, feeling like I owed this person some sort of explanation.
Eventually, I went out and introduced myself, explained the situation, and reassured her that we never fed Buddy and that all of our time together was spent playing and petting him (not a her, apparently). After that, she invited me over to visit and to watch her groom the lustrous fur of my only apartment friend. Our relationship with Buddy’s owner never advanced to anything more than a greeting on the walkway and an occasional mutual lovefest with Buddy, but now I knew a person I could enthusiastically address, which made me feel more at home.
Sadly, Buddy and his owner disappeared a few weeks later. We were never sure if his owners stopped letting him out, or if they moved away. And because our relationship never advanced beyond a hearty “hello,” the mystery was never solved. Either way, we missed Buddy.
In my twenties, when adventure called, I found that I had been longing for it’s invitation – that I had an unknown fountain of desire to see and do things I had never considered before. With each new enterprise I felt nothing but joy, occasionally tempered by cold, rain, or mechanical challenge, but no defeat was larger than what a Snickers candy bar could solve (family cure-all for when moods dip). When the universe beckoned, I listened. However, it took awhile to learn that life in urban areas initially seems less friendly than in rural areas, and that building friendships there is often more fraught due to distance and the sheer volume of human bodies available. The good news is I’ve learned population size does not impact the friendly response of a pet. Since then, I’ve found lots of Buddys – all over the world. Thank goodness.