Alison’s Cat Sitter

In the 1970s, I was spending a summer in Princeton to work on my dissertation, but the prospect of dorm living was resistible. I put the word out amongst friends, hoping that an opportunity would present itself. In short order, I heard back from a pal who was the grooms-woman to Mrs. Grace Lambert’s (the widow of Gerard Lambert of Listerine fame) horses: a cat sitter was urgently needed for the summer to take up duties the very next day. An eminent archaeologist — Alison Frantz — was unexpectedly called off to Greece, and Tamino, her Manx, needed to be looked after.

I dutifully presented myself at the appointed time in front of a curious cinderblock house near the Institute. But before I could even ring the doorbell, a stern woman emerged from the house, approached me — suitcase in hand (I was too intimidated even to offer assistance) — extended her hand, not to shake mine, but to drop her house keys in mine — and commanded, “If the house burns down, save the cat.” That was the beginning of my lifelong friendship with the redoubtable Alison, despite being duty bound to feed Tamino fresh prawns and kidneys each dawn.

Upon her return from Greece, I became her frequent guest, grateful that Tamino couldn’t speak! The delight of my visits with Alison became inseparable from my respect for her house full of surprises. It reminded me of a lady’s raincoat, with a lining of fur; but the cinderblock house was warmed by brick and wood.

My career took me abroad for almost three decades. While posted to Tokyo, I received a phone call out of the blue from a Princeton estate agent; she had gotten my name from a fellow grad student who was my elder and had retired from the Far East to Princeton. She wondered aloud if I might be interested in such a path, as well. Since my international career was hardly over, I told her that Princeton was not in my future. She asked that I humor her and describe the kind of house which might take my fancy. Without hesitation, I volunteered Alison’s address who had since passed away. Though struck by my specificity, the agent seemed to get my measure and began sending me faxes of quirky Princeton houses. Though appealing, they did not signify.

After having then moved on London with my family, I received a call one night from the agent informing me that Alison’s house was for sale. As it happened, I was bound for New York the very next day. I agreed to come down to Princeton and visit the house. On the appointed day, we met up and I was still so taken with its memory that I paid no mind to its shortcomings wrought by time. I vowed to bring my family down at Christmas which was fast approaching. Then, when we did all visit, my husband’s comment, upon pulling up to the house, did not bode well: “I’m not quite sure I’m ready to be buried down a little country lane.” But one daughter decided she’d like a horse in the guest house and another claimed Alison’s dark room as her very own bedroom. Upon our departure, the naysayer pointed to a spot in the sitting room, declaring it just the right spot for a piano!

Tamino, long gone, was followed by Fuqi, our pooch from Beijing. Sadly they are now both buried in Alison’s garden; and in my study is a copy of her favorite photograph of a cat in a fig tree taken in Greece which she had  given me when I received my doctorate. Our family has grown up in this house, but I still feel grateful to be sharing it with the eminent and dear M. Alison  Frantz.