Celebrating where life and learning intersect

One of the most delightful student conversations I’ve had recently began with my ritual, How was your weekend? query.

His polite expression vanished in a glow: “I caught a seven-pound bass.”

The few minutes that followed were the most rewarding of our term together. Usual reserve gone, he delightedly explained the challenge and rarity of such a catch, and put his phone to the screen so I could see the photo.

It was a lovely, welcome reminder that learning is always part of a bigger life. The selves we bring to classrooms, as teachers or students, are just a slice of the pie.

My best (only?) didactic strategy is to celebrate and be curious about my kids’ whole lives. Authentic interest and appreciation turn every learner into a “good” student.

In that spirit, I want to share a piece about a fundamental part of my life — one I rarely discuss in a professional context. It’s not to do with education exactly, but it’s part of who I am and what I value and how I spend my days.

Each of them has a story that deserves to be told. Today’s spotlight is on Leopold:

Leopold

Someone asked: How do you think of names for so many cats?

Naming is the easy part. Especially because I love words and obscure connections.

Leopold (aka Leo, Leelee, Leo Pickles, Leelee Pickles, Mr Pickles or 24-hour Party Pickle) was named after Leopold Bloom, protagonist of perennial “Best X Novels of the 20th Century” contender and James Joyce’s most digestible masterpiece, Ulyssess.

Yes, I was a lit major. Nevertheless, I wasn’t suffering flashbacks to my third-year Joyce seminar when I named Leo. The truth is lower-brow than that.

But first: two black-and-white kittens lived at a house on my jogging route. They appeared when they were quite small, and I would see them playing together, or scooting around the well-kept garden. One sticky day in early May, I decided to run that loop. Coming down the hill, toward a set of bins where someone set food for feral cats, I saw one of the black-and-white kittens lying Sphinx-pose on the edge of the road. It was an odd place and posture for a cat, especially in the heat of the day. I approached, and he pulled himself away, both hind legs dragging.

I hollered over their fence until an man came out. “Your cat… it’s hurt.”

“Yeah, it’s in a bad way. It’s not our cat though. They’re friendly,” he added.

I pounded home, grabbed a trap-cage, food, gloves and hopped in the car. The little guy had dragged himself across the road and was hiding in a storm drain. He couldn’t move fast, and was hungry, so I was able to trap him on the second try. The other kitten stayed on the edge of the scene, meowing and anxious.

Ulysses is a retelling of The Odyssey. As chance would have it, I’d just watched the absurd-yet-splending Brad-Pitt-worship vehicle Troy. There could only be one name for a handsome little warrior with a game leg: Achilles.

Achilles and I dashed to our vet.

“This picture isn’t compatible with survival,” the vet said when he showed me the x-ray. “But we’ll see what we can do.”

Achilles wanted to be on my lap. When he was settled in his cage with an IV, he dragged himself over and flopped against my arm. I promised to bring him his brother, ASAP.

That promise took a few days to keep. Little guy was still there, curious but mistrusting. For a few nights, I baited the cage and left; this yielded a few feral adults, but not brother.

One morning, I took a transport up, slathered sardines all over it. As I waited, a man so old and frail it hardly made sense he was standing inched up the hill. He had a flat cap, buttonless shirt and no teeth. I braced for an interrogation or a lecture about catering to stray cats.

“I saw him get dumped,” he told me. “I’ve been feeding him and his brother.”

Ashamed of my assumptions, I explained that the brother was safe with a vet.

This wizened saint put down some food. Leo scuttled over. The man pulled on my gloves, scruffed him and got him in the crate.

All this time, I’d been pondering his name. Achilles and Odysseus are counterparts and counterpoints in The Iliad. But Odyssesus, for a cat? Oddy? Sess? Seuss? Yssy? Uff.

Achilles (the cat) clung on. The vets were draining pus from his lungs and his hind legs were useless, but he was affectionate, still eating.

Odysseus. The Odyssey. Ulysses. Who’s Odysseus’ character? Leopold Bloom.

Leopold? That’s a name a cat can live with.

Bloodwork and x-rays revealed little brother was in perfect health, so he was neutered, vaxxed, chipped and christened.

After a few days of constant care it was clear Achilles couldn’t go on. We put him to sleep on a wet Saturday. I have no qualms about putting down cats when it is the kindest option, but I cried.

“Look at it this way,” the vet said kindly. “If you hadn’t brought him in, he’d still be alive out there in the rain.”

That was two years ago. Leo, who was 8-9 months old when he was rescued, has grown into an independent, feisty, loving companion. Unlike the more truly feral members of the squad, he focuses on people rather than other cats. One of his stock moves is preemptive purring: when he sees me approach and thinks a tummy rub might happen he starts rumbling.

He is one of many happy sad stories, or sad happy stories. All rescue cat stories contain both worlds. It is a massive privilege to have him in our lives and to know that Achilles – unlike his namesake – ended his short stay in peace, comfort and the safety of love.

And that Leo can wander to his heart’s content knowing that he can always come home.

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