Trying to say hello, learning to say goodbye

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, you know how emotionally ill-equipped I am at times to accept the ground rules of feral cat care:

1. you can’t take them all home with you.
2. some of them will n-e-v-e-r let you touch them.
3. many of them will die.

I’ve ignored all these ground rules frequently, but none more than accepting that many of them will die. My last post was about Tom, the alpha male at the farm, and how he was starting to fail. Just a few days after writing, he disappeared and in my heart, I knew he had passed.

I am told that ferals will decide when it’s time, wander off to a favorite quiet place, and let go. If THEY should accept this passing easily, why can’t I? I realized the other week that it had been a stunning five months since Prince Harry showed up sick and then disappeared, and still each day when I go to his spot to feed a new kitty there, I well up with tears and get a knot in my stomach, thinking that perhaps I failed him somehow.

Simone suggested a meditation I could do at the two feeding spots: thank Harry and Tom for the good times, tell them I love them and tell them they should go, and not linger because their time here was done. It wasn’t as hard to say goodbye to Tom – I expected his passing for weeks before it happened. But Harry’s departure was such a shock. I had fed and sheltered him for three years and had been unable to say goodbye. And as I choked on my words of benediction, a moth fluttered in my car window and sat on the steering wheel, flexing its wings in a friendly hello. It took my breath away; I really sensed that Harry was sending me a sweet message. And when I finished, it fluttered away. And with the moth, my feelings of heaviness departed.

At the same time as I was trying to let go, I was also trying to connect. Mr. Tux, the handsome new youngster at the farm (now fixed and vaccinated by my group), has come tantalizingly close to letting me pet him, only to get spooked and duck away from my touch. In my emotional mind, I think if I can get him to love human interaction, perhaps I can find an adopter, and he won’t end up like so many others – dying prematurely from illness or predators. So I persist. And persist. Every day he’s there, I extend a hand, and the dance begins. He ducks and parries, even as he purrs and kneads the ground happily.

And finally, I get what I’m looking for: IMG_2343

(or here if the video doesn’t play: https://youtu.be/YQiIDjxslD0)

Is it any wonder we rescue types lose perspective and ignore the ground rules?  🙂

Thanks, Saint Francis, for the reminder that even as feline relationships dissipate into treasured memory, new ones can be born. Just remind me of the ground rules occasionally before I bring another one home.