This morning I said goodbye to Pokey as I usually do, with a hug and a kiss on top of his head as he lay in repose on my armchair. He usually responds with a sleepy purr, but today his chronic upper respiratory congestion flared, and he let loose a hacking sneeze and cough. Alarmed, I soothed him until his fit faded, and then left on my feeding rounds. Then I went to the grocery store where I ran into and chatted with a friend.
And when I came home, I caught sight of myself in the mirror. There, on my forehead, was a small colored streak. I leaned in closely and touched it. The brownish spot was crusty and flaked off. Then I realized what had happened. I had been walking around in public with cat snot on my forehead.
In my younger years, when I was far more vain and preoccupied with my looks, I would have shrieked and freaked. But at this age… meh. I just sighed. And looked over at Pokey, who was studying my expression curiously. “It’s a good thing I love you, buddy,” I chuckled.
When you really love a cat, he can adorn you with mucus on your forehead and you don’t get mad – unless it’s at yourself for not checking the mirror more often.
When you really love a cat, rather than get upset when you’re awakened by the snoring of Skeeter, whose chronic rhinitis can make her sound like a tiny donkey braying, you think it’s adorable.
When you really love a cat, even when he’s pugnacious with a capital P, as was the late, great Iggy Pop, you don’t think he’s evil or a jerk, but just lively and funny. (Others in my family definitely felt otherwise. 😉
And I’ve learned that you can STILL love a cat, even when it won’t let you come close enough to touch.
When you love a stray cat, even though you’re late to a work meeting, you stay a bit longer to make sure the new guy at the farm gets his share, because the old dowager mama cat smacks him around when she’s in a cranky mood, and his response, as a “zeta cat,” is to run and hide, and your heart goes out to him because you’ve been in his situation before. So you move his dish closer to him, and talk to him sweetly until he loses his fear and comes back out.
And when you really love a stray cat, you stand like a crazy person on a bridge in the worst rain the area has seen in decades, calling the names of the two you feed who live beneath it, Lafcadio and Silver, fretting that they were washed away in the raging torrent.
You shed tears of worry when they don’t come, and tears of gratitude when they show up two days later.
Just yesterday I saw a deeply moving example of what happens when you really love a cat. A woman who had just lost her 9-year-old cat to cancer offered Kitten’s toys, food and bed to me, so some other cat could benefit from her loss. She was putting on a brave face, but as she extended her arm to hand me Kitten’s pillow-bed, she retracted it again, and held it close. Then she lifted it to her face, so she could take a last whiff of Kitten’s sweet scent, before handing it to me in tears.
I felt her pain and understood her selflessness. Because when you really, really REALLY love a cat, even though you know he might have another week left of life, and you know you will miss him so terribly when he dies that it takes your breath away, you let him go. This one, my Wyatt, still purred slightly, but had lost the ability to eat and drink, or climb the stairs. And even though I was deeply attached to him, when you really love a cat, you make that phone call so he won’t suffer anymore, and you take him in and hold him tenderly while he slips away. And you make a makeshift altar with his photo, and flowers and eventually his ashes, perhaps concerned that you will forget him otherwise.
Which is silly because you really loved him, and won’t forget.
Ah, yes, Jane, YOU REALLY KNOW how to love a cat. Bless you.