What does it say about me … if a cat was my best friend?

My daughter named her Sarafina.

A calico of white, brown and black markings, she was never very large. Soft fur like sable, lithe like a ballerina. We found her in the SPCA in 2000, when she was seven months old. Someone else had adopted her, but brought her back because she “talked too much.” To this day I am grateful to that person’s foolish priorities and wish them well for the gift they gave me.

It’s hard talking about someone in the past tense. Each word reminds you that they are gone. That all you have left are the images in your mind and the photographs on the shelf.

One of mine sits in my office, with a vase next to it. When in bloom, I pick a flower from our garden and place it there. I greet her every day when I walk into my office and say goodbye when I leave.

Is that weird?

We talked often. I did most of it, but she said her fair share. Never one to hide how she felt, I was never at a loss for what she was thinking. It just came to me. I knew what was on her mind, how her day had gone, and that she was always glad to see me. She taught me how not to speak when angry, how to listen better than I had been and to never, ever take a loved one for granted.

With her soft hazel green eyes, she saw the world more clearly than I did. I brought all manner of emotion and opinion into my thoughts and the way I viewed life — Sarafina just saw it, however it was. I would ask her — how do you do it? She would just stare at me. A Buddhist koan from the animal kingdom. Waiting for me to “get it.” Eventually I did. Be in the moment. Just see what is there, not what you think about what’s there.

Yes, I became a good student.

She was never a mother, not in this life, but she was maternal in a way that was both comforting and unflinching. She gave her love unconditionally and expected, I would imagine, that love would come to her in turn. Why wouldn’t it? But she was willing to set that love aside though, to be aloof, inaccessible, if the world and those within it, were not appreciative of what she had to offer them. If they didn’t see the value or heed the message of tolerance that was always with her.

Yes, she did kill. And yes, she did on occasion play with other creatures, but it was not done with malice. It was simply the order of things. The way Nature had designed the world and she was, if nothing else, a product of that world. An avid observer and listener and eventually, a teacher as well, with me as her student.

And as with all teachers, we don’t always see and understand the depth and breadth of what they say — not all at once. But it does come to us over time, as her teachings eventually came to me. She was wise — well beyond her years. Aloof and distant, warm and comforting, strict and unbending; she possessed the capacity of a great thinker, in the small furry body of a cat.

She taught me that love came easily, as it came naturally. And that what was difficult, was the art of protecting that love. Keeping it from harm. Preventing it from being eroded away as life and hardships and the instabilities of man, abraded against it, in a seemingly intentional effort to make it go away.

She showed me how to resist that temptation. How to focus on the moment it enters our lives, in whatever form and never forget that it’s a gift. And as everyone knows, it is impolite to return a gift, once given.

As she grew older, less agile, less willing to suffer fools, her demeanor changed. She eschewed the habits of others to become cranky and unforgiving with old age. To communicate less, complain more and bemoan the loss of youth to those who don’t seem to prize it as much. Instead she chose to become even more affectionate. To listen even more deeply. To observe, with those hazel eyes, in ways that would puzzle me. I would sit and watch her watching the world and think — what does she see?

Is it just the trees and leaves blowing in the wind? Is it just the occasional car passing, or dog walking with man in tow? Why did it seem that she was looking right through this world and into the next? I tried asking her, but she refrained from saying too much. Instead, allowing me the time and space to see for myself. I am getting there.

In 2010, we almost lost Sarafina to four coyotes in our front yard. Through the bravery of my wife and Sarafina’s love for her, she survived. Wounded and at death’s door for a time, we waited.

When she came home from the vet, we nursed her. Talked to her. Told her we loved her, a thousand times a thousand times and waited for her to return. She did.

She slowed a little. Hurt a little and jumped not quite as often. Her perch on the high fence in our backyard, became a point too far, so she took her place wherever it suited her. High or low, she was always in command of whatever was before her.

As the year’s passed, we talked often. Sometimes the student scolding the teacher for some perceived wrong. The teacher listening and not holding it against him. We grew old together. A man and a cat creating a bond that transcended all pre-conceived notions to the contrary. We studied together. Laughed together. Ate together — she loved breaded chicken from Trader Joe’s — and spent the years believing, quite understandably that our time together would simply go on and on.

By April 2018, it became apparent, that the vitality that had coursed through her body was lessening and that her eyes, though just as bright and responsive, was losing a little of the sparkle that made her so special.

Our Sarafina was beginning to fade.

We talk of loss, the sudden departure of someone loved dearly and we try to put into words, the feeling of our heart being torn apart. Of our life’s blood being pump into a void, because we cannot see past their being gone. We talk of these things briefly, because we must. The pain is too great to linger for too long. But the memories … they remain forever.

She passed on a Saturday morning, in my wife’s arms, as I stood next to her. The breathing stopped. The light gone. The spirit confused, but just as filled with love and appreciation as it had always been.

It took a while before I could smile again. Sure, I tried and the lips did move and others were no doubt convinced that I was alright. But not so. I had lost my best friend. I had lost my teacher, my rabbi, my guide and I wasn’t sure how I would manage. Over time it became clear that I had to. To do anything other than prosper and flourish would be a disservice to her. A lessening of her impact on my life.

A small calico cat, all of eight pounds on a good day, taught me a great many things about life, nature, people and most importantly I think, about myself. I owe her. I loved her and love her still.

I have wondered at times if the tears would ever stop. I guess, I don’t care anymore. If they don’t, then every one of them will have been worth it. I knew Sarafina. She was my best friend.