After almost 40 years, Denny's #289 closed its doors on November 1, 2006. Memories will fade. Now Elsie has found immortality in the blog world.

How Elsie Finally Managed Her Neurosis and Learned to Love

Nearly midnight as I left my shift at Denny's and began to pull my car out of the parking lot, I saw a flicker of white and black fur reflected in the headlights. A tiny kitten flashed and was gone in an instant, swallowed by night-black bushes that lined the creek between the restaurant and the freeway. Carefully, quietly, I opened my car door, "Here kitty kitty!" But she didn't come out. Evidently this one was too wild and terrified, oblivious to the fact that I was probably the most ardent cat-lover in the whole world, and getting to know me would provide immediate relief from her hunger, cold, and anxiety! Sadly, I couldn't convince her, so I got back into my car and drove home, reflecting on the many cats that had been left to scratch out a living on the greasy pavement behind the restaurant. The pretty and friendly and lucky ones might find a home with a dishwasher or warm-hearted customer. But the scared and lonely and desperate ones usually met with a dismal end.

I didn't think about Elsie again for several months. When I saw her next, I recognized her immediately as the little kitten I had glimpsed earlier in the winter. She was bigger, but emaciated, and still had the same furtive feral movements. When I tried to approach her, she jolted and darted like a mouse in a kitchen. But she appeared briefly from time to time, at the edge of the parking lot, and I began putting cat food out for her. One day she decided to take it; she was starving.

I stayed distant, and watched motionless as she hungrily gobbled, casting cagey glances my way. She was full grown now, but she was small. Her coat was matted and filthy, the white under-fur stained with parking lot grease. Her backbone seemed malformed, unnaturally curved, probably from inadequate nutrition. I began calling her "L.C." for Little Cat, and her name became "Elsie."

If you want to get to know a cat, the first thing is to tune in and pay attention to what that particular cat is like. Cats are like people, and listening to a cat's spirit is like listening to a person's spirit. It is unique. Like people, cats have distinct needs, desires, neuroses, confusion, and wisdom. Elsie was neurotic to the point of dysfunction, obviously. That's what happens to cats and to people when they have been hurt, when they have carried too great a burden. They get stressed out.

So I listened to Elsie. Every day I put the food out behind the bushes at the edge of the parking lot. I stayed back and I waited. I stayed still. After awhile I tried moving a tiny bit closer. And I waited and stayed still and listened. By attuning to her I knew when it might be okay to try moving closer. Eventually I was right next to her. I didn't try to touch her, but stayed close each day, just waiting, watching, and listening to her spirit.

One day I reached out tenuously, and she let me stroke her fur and she purred as she ate. This hesitant truce defined our relationship for several weeks, but if anyone else approached us, she dashed away, her feral instinct taking over.

The rain was especially heavy that year, and Elsie's dirty coat was often soaked. Bill and Marie came to Denny's every day for coffee and pie. One day Bill brought Elsie a new home – a large milk crate covered with plastic sheeting. We put a towel-covered pillow inside and hid the box out of sight in the bushes. Now Elsie had a secret refuge from the wet rain.

But I was still the only person she allowed close to her. My goal was to earn enough of Elsie's trust to be able to take her home. I believed this would be a better life for her than the fringes of the restaurant parking lot. So one day I decided to try to pick her up. It was risky. She might panic, scratch, bite, and dart away, never again to trust me or any other human. But it was a risk I had to take if I were ever going to succeed in taking her home.

So, after she finished eating, and she was purring as I gently stroked her head and scratched her ears, I slowly lifted her to my chest. To my amazement, she nestled her head under my chin cuddling close, letting forth a soft throaty purr. I had earned her trust. This love-fest became a daily ritual. I decided it was time to take Elsie to her new home, my home, full of warmth, comfort, food, and soft catnap chairs. Finally Elsie would have a life of ease—something every cat deserves. I lifted her up and stroked her, and told her of the wonderful comforts in store for her. She also needed a bath, a health check, and she needed to be spayed. I didn't tell her about that part. I put her in the car and drove the short distance to my house. She wasn't happy, but she didn't complain either. She trusted me.

The first thing I needed to do was give her a bath. Although she had grown fat from nutritious food, her fur was still grimy and dingy, streaked with black grease. Again, I knew I was risking panic, attack, and loss of her trust, but she needed a bath and there was no getting around it. It's well-known that cats hate water, but contrary to common belief, it isn't difficult to bathe a cat. It may be unpleasant, but it isn't difficult.

I put a few inches of warm water into the sink, and readied myself. Plunging Elsie's body in, I held her firmly with one hand, and lathered her fur with the other. She howled as if I were burning her with hot pokers. What betrayal! I felt the shame of a hypocrite, and I begged her forgiveness.

It was over in five minutes. I bundled her in a towel and tried to dry her fur, but she got away from me. She slunk off under the antique sideboard where I couldn't reach her, and urgently and madly pulled at her wet fur with her sandpapery tongue. I was sure she was full of vengeful thoughts and would never forgive me.

A few hours later her fur was dry. She came out from under the furniture and she strutted toward me, a creature transformed! The gray dinginess was gone. Now the white of her fur was dazzling and the black was sleek and glossy. She was beautiful and she knew it. I marveled as she strutted around the room. Not only did she forgive me; she thanked me!

After that, her fur was never dingy again. She kept herself immaculately clean. It didn't take long to figure out that Elsie was not going to adapt to life in our home. She didn't take kindly to our other cats and retreated again to the hideaway under the sideboard. She refused to emerge. It was obvious that she was utterly unhappy.

Somewhat sadly I returned her to the restaurant parking lot. I had listened to her; I respected her wishes. Eventually we endured the ordeal of having her spayed, and she recovered well and then embarked on several years of routine and relationships, following the rituals in the Denny's parking lot to which she had become accustomed. The regulars paid her daily visits, each in his unique style.

John Estrada was Elsie's second favorite, after me. He was a widower in his 80's who lived alone, a small quiet man with a big heart. Every afternoon he came to the restaurant for coffee and company. His mammoth barge of a mid-70's American car had a trunk immense enough to carry a refrigerator. And he loved Elsie. He started bringing her food. Walking and bending were hard for him, so he opened his car trunk and set the bowl of cat food up inside. The trunk lid remained open while John went inside for coffee and conversation. To my amazement, Elsie didn't hesitate to jump up into the open trunk and munch down! Spring sunshine now warmed the parking lot, and sometimes she even curled up there for a sunny nap after filling her belly.

Elsie grew attached to John. She learned to recognize his car, and watched for it from her hiding place in the bushes. As he cruised into the lot, Elsie dashed to meet him, eagerly awaiting the open trunk and tasty treats inside. Eventually gentle John was able to coax her into his arms where he wooed her with gentle words and soft caresses. He and I were the only ones she ever permitted this intimacy.

A few years later, the time came for a life change. I was moving on; my husband and I were selling the restaurant after fifteen years. We were moving to Jackson Hole, Wyoming to pursue another chapter in our lives. What would become of Elsie? I had comprehended her misery when I tried to take her home with me. A forcible move from her familiar turf was not an option. But it worried me. A Denny's parking lot is a dangerous place for a cat; a 24-hour coffee shop attracts dumpers-of-cats and worse, a seedy array of the lowest humans who get twisted satisfaction from the torture of small animals and children. Elsie knew this on some level, of course — at least she knew from experience about the lowest element of earth's most highly evolved animal. But she couldn't understand that her choice of home had more of those creeps than other places. She figured her experience was Universal Truth and she had learned to manage life's dangers by carving out a small corner where she could be in control of its elements. This was how Elsie learned to deal with her neurosis and anxiety. What Elsie knew was that her Denny's parking lot also brought people who loved her. She had carefully and deliberately chosen the ones that she allowed into her life. It was all she needed. It was enough.

I knew that Elsie would miss me. But that sadness was preferable to unendurable anxiety of facing the unknown, the uncontrollable. Bill and Marie would continue their visits, and Elsie could rely on John to bring his car trunk and treats every day. So we went, and we left Elsie. Reports came to us that life continued as usual for Elsie and the others at Denny's.

Twenty years have now passed and Elsie is gone. So are John Estrada and Bill and Marie and the other kindhearted citizens who shared coffee and stories across the counter in that place on the sunny and rainy California Central Coast on Highway 101. But I see them still, in my mind and dreams. Elsie let me into her life, and I'll never forget her. Anyway, that's what it's all about – trust and risk – and figuring out how to manage a corner of this scary world.