To possess? Or to be possessed?

Of all the cats I feed in the morning, Eddie is the biggest crowd-pleaser. He trots out from his shelter behind the Post Office, crosses the parking lot – often dodging mail delivery vans – and dips under the fence to join me in the grassy area just behind it. He gets plenty of attention from people during the day, so he’s used to be petted and loved on.

Lately, he’s even taken to jumping onto my car trunk when I’ve been fixing his morning meal. This has frequently caught the attention of passers-by. This week, a woman paused to watch him and admire the agility of his portly frame.

“He’s so beautiful!” she breathed. “Is he yours?”

I chuckled. “No, he’s not mine. But I am his.”

She looked politely perplexed, and walked on.

I think most people think of animals as things or objects to possess. And those things better gratify them or… what’s the point of having one? They are easily disposable. This justifies everything from factory farming to the number of people who return animals to adoption agencies when they aren’t “friendly enough” or develop problems, as every elderly mammal must.

I know better than to believe in the law of reciprocity – or let’s say I’ve been schooled in this matter since starting my rescue work a decade ago. Feeling possessive is fruitless, and frustrating. Especially with cats, who will love you when they’re damn good and ready. And even if they do love you – and claim you as their human – you might never get much in return for your devotion.

Every animal is as different as every human. I’ve had dozens of cats in my life – some of whom are immediately accessible and affectionate. Others, like my Skeeter, have feral roots so deep she will probably never sit on my lap. (After trapping her years ago, she was diagnosed with chronic rhinitis; her illness made me decide not tot put her back outside where a full-blown lung infection would kill her.) So I look for smaller hints of reciprocity: the small purr when I chufff her neck fur, which she seems to like. The blink of her eyes and the small chirp of hello in the morning. I give her space and she politely tolerates me. She is not mine but I am hers.

I don’t think you can be a true animal lover and not accept this truth. I’ve only ever been angry with a few adopters, but the most recent time was the most egregious. A man adopted a street cat who seemed like a total sweetie, though at the time I told him to go slow and not expect too much of a response at first. He immediately started petting him, and Charlie let him know it was too soon with a strong swat. And rather than giving him space, the new owner kept at it, resulting in predictable escalation of Charlie’s defensive behavior. After just two months, he called me: he’d had enough. Charlie would have to go.

I lucked out and learned of a woman on Skyline who loved orange tabbies and would take Charlie in. I warned her about him, and she said she would respect his boundaries and go slowly. Within a week he was purring on her lap.

I guess it’s all about respect. And the importance of humans being able to curb our incessant need for affection and reciprocity.

Not that I’m good at being detached and respectful 100% of the time. If I were, I’d be more gracious at loving and letting go.

The vet told me last week that my beloved Wyatt, rescue of the last 10 months and a feline soulmate if ever there was one, has maybe two more months to live, as his skin cancer is progressing rapidly. He has always been resistant to my attempts at cuddling; so it is with many animals that have been traumatized or mistreated. And he still is, somewhat – requiring me to sneak up and hug him from behind. But now when I do, I feel that little bit of relaxation, that slow and happy rumble, and sometimes even a lift of the head to meet my embrace. In those few moments, he lets me claim him, and even tolerates the tears that drip on his head. But it’s always on his terms – and that’s okay with me.

He is not mine, but I am his.