I’d Be a Sadder Human Without Your Feline Love

If there ever was a love story, this is it

I found you. Or you found me. Or perhaps, the way the Universe would tell the tale, we were meant for each other all along, our fates sealed somewhere in the Akashic records long, long ago.

But this is not a spiritual tale. It’s a tale of awesome love, of pawsome love. A love between a four-legged and his bi-pedal mate.

Your Tale

When we first met, you were fully grown, wizened, and toughened by a life on the street. “We treated him for mites,” the rescue worker said, “and he’s a fighter.” She took my hand and led my fingers over scabs, raised and rough beneath your fur. “They’ll heal in time,” she said, her kind gaze meeting mine.

You didn’t seem at all content in my home. You meowed incessantly that first week, wandering from room to room as if in search of your lost freedom. This giant, human-sized box is not my style, is what you were trying to tell me.

“Stay safe. Come back,” I had whispered the first time I let you leave through the front door. You padded down the sidewalk, the gold name tag with MAX, and my phone number dangling from the pink collar my daughter had bought for you.

You were not an indoor cat. To love you was to let you explore.

“Do you own a cat named Max?” a woman’s voice in my voicemail. “He’s near the hostel. Just thought you should know.”

I didn’t go fetch you that day. I trusted you’d find your way back.

When you showed up at my doorstep a couple of hours later, I could have sworn your chest was puffed up, your tail high with feline pride at having roamed and returned to what was now marked as your Forever Home by your return.

The only time you needed rescuing was when a man called to let me know you were running back and forth across a busy road.

I drove the three blocks, anxious for your safety. You were up a tree and as soon as you saw me, climbed down and I swear, you jumped…yes, jumped into my arms.

We drove home together, you on my lap peering over the steering wheel, and it was then I knew we were meant for each other.

You are the neighborhood love cat. You’ve been inside stranger’s abodes, and have come home smelling of unfamiliar perfumes, of fire, and cigarette smoke. “Where have you been?” I always ask. You rub yourself against my leg as if sneaking into someone else’s house was the most normal thing in the world.

My partner lovingly nicknamed you The Wedge. Anytime he and I get close on the sofa, you squeeze yourself between us, creating distance. He’s convinced you are jealous and want to be the center of attention, while I tell myself I’m your favorite and you don’t want anyone else to have me.

My Tale

I have no clue as to your history. It’s as though you came to me, your past written in hieroglyphs in the chambers of your heart, a hidden secret only you are privy to.

By the time I found you, your way of being was already stamped into your feline form. Your ginger fur, like the Earth’s oceans, covers about 70 percent of your body, and what remains is the white of your chin, chest, and belly that you offer up for a rub and a scratch on winter mornings when we both wake to dawn knocking on the still-dark sky.

Did you know there are approximately 770 million cats on Earth compared to eight billion humans? That’s 1,143 humans per cat. I’m not sure of the significance of these statistics, other than you are more exotic, merely because there are fewer of your kind in the world.

When I met you, I needed gentleness and comfort, simple nurturing from another. I was tired of talking to humans about my earthly pain of heartbreak, weary of having silent conversations with myself that spiraled in on themselves and fed the river of endless tears.

I watched intently as you bathed, your pink tongue licking clean your fur, as though it was the most important task, the only task. I too began to lick the wounds my heart carried. Over the next year, I licked them gently, intentionally, loving myself back to health.

Do you remember those nights I wept into your fur? I’d lie in the fetal position on my bed and you’d leap up with your tell-tale chortle and settle near my belly. Your purrs were like ancient vibrations that eased my anxiety.

You are there for me when my batteries run low; when I forget to take care of myself and give more than I take. You settle on my lap, your weight instantly calming. You knock your forehead against mine, a form of feline Namaste, and blink slowly. “Relax, human,” you seem to be saying.

This morning, I took my writing and coffee back to bed, feeling especially sensitive and fragile. I wrote three pages with your warm body stretched alongside my hip and when I finished, you looked up at me as if asking, “All better?”

You don’t try to fix me or help me understand, or explain me to myself so that we both feel better. Your gift is your presence, your acceptance of me in whatever state I show up on any given day.

You’ve been my friend and confidant. You’ve given much more to me than I have to you and for this gift, I’m eternally grateful.

We humans are a strange lot. We anthropomorphize, assign human attributes to our four-legged friends in hopes of deepening our connection.

I don’t know what your feelings are for me, but what I do know is that you, Max, are my favorite among the 770 million cats in the world and that has to mean something.

Thank you for your unconditional presence. My life is sweeter, richer, and more present with you in it. May your pawsome love be a blessing to all.

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