John is the nicest person in our family and always has been. Ask anyone. This niceness does not make him a good judge of pet character. When he was four or five, he chose a kitten from our Jezebel’s litter that was the meanest cat known to man or woman. (Jezebel was the cat Cartier and Andrea Reis found on the elementary school playground and kept in their locker until after school. Yes, that crazy and perpetually pregnant cat.) Sweet Sugar was beautiful with long hair and black, white, and caramel splotches marking her fur. But, as Mom always reminded us: “Pretty is as pretty does.” Sweet Sugar was beastly ugly under those terms. If belonging to John couldn’t turn a creature’s disposition to the rosier side, there was little hope.
Every time he picked her up, she scratched the living daylights out of him. Loving as ever, John kept trying to win her affections. At the July Jubilee of 1988, John decided to enter Sweet Sugar in the pet show. As he placed her on the table to be judged, she clawed his face, leaving long, red, bloody stripes down his face. “Sweet Sugar! Why don’t you love me?” he cried. Instead of being supportive, Gavin and Samantha started teasing him with continual taunts of “Sweet Sugar! Why don’t you live me?” Big sister Cartier wasn’t much more help as she told him that Sweet Sugar was the Devil’s spawn, which, in turn, terrified him. By the time I reached the four of them, John was crying, Sweet Sugar was hissing, and Samantha and Gavin had to be reprimanded. “Tai Kidwell’s kittens won, just because they were in a basket with a bow on it!” John said, pitifully.
“Tai Kidwell’s kittens won because they aren’t the Devil’s spawn,” Gavin retorted.
“Gavin!” I said, sternly, drawing out his name to “Gav un!” stress on the second syllable. (When John was first talking, that is how he said Gavin’s name: two syllables said slowly, firmly, and sternly. Wonder why?) I grabbed Gavin’s shirt at the shoulder, reprimanded him, and so Samantha giggled. “You’re in trouble! You’re in trouble!” she sing-songed.
“Knock it off, missy. And I mean it!” I returned, not at all like the television mothers talked to their children. Cartier rolled her eyes and interjected something like “Good times,” in a voice dripping with sarcasm. I glared at her and gave her “the look.”
The other three kittens from that litter were named for the Aristocats as we had just seen the movie. Cartier had Marie, a beautiful white kitten who didn’t live long. Gavin’s was Berlioz, a pretty little gray kitten who followed Cartier’s close behind, resulting in two pet funeral services that month. Toulouse, the furry yellow kitten, lived to be fourteen, and Sweet Sugar died of meanness, I would imagine, after about a year or two of making John’s life miserable. However, Toulouse and Sweet Sugar are the two we remember most often. Just last night, Gavin and I were laughing about Sweet Sugar and how dreadful she was. I commented that John was the only person I knew who would continue to treat a cat like her kindly, and Gavin came back with, “Sweet Sugar! Why don’t you love me?” Good times indeed.
It’s funny how those little fleeting vignettes from life leave such a lasting impression. The nastiest cat we ever had supplies us with wonderful moments of fond reminiscing to this day. All any one of the kids has to say is, “Sweet Sugar! Why don’t you love me?” and we have those delicious belly laughs that bring tears to our eyes. But I must say, if any of you are reincarnated as an animal, pray that you come back as one of John Esham’s pets. There is no better life, I assure you. Just ask his rescue dog, Roxie, for references.
