Month: November 2013

Yesterday morning, I was roused out of a sound sleep by a very vigorous head bunt.  Because I was probably dreaming, my first reaction was “what the–”  When I woke up enough to realize what had just happened, I was pleased to see that it was just Elroy waking me up.  It turns out that the reason he was waking me up was so that he could cuddle with me.

After much maneuvering and standing up and plopping back down, Elroy finally worked himself into prime snuggling position, wedged nicely between Wanda (who was cuddled up against Sean) and me.  Wanda’s head was towards the foot of the bed and Elroy’s head was towards the head of the bed, and their feet were almost intertwined, so they looked like they were making yin and yang symbols.  My arm was wrapped around Elroy and he snuggled his head alternately on my arm and against it.  Within minutes I could hear him snoring.

What makes this whole scene remarkable is that, a short seven or eight years ago, we couldn’t even touch Elroy (or Roodle, as we sometimes call him).  We could barely look at him without him running away.  Elroy was a feral whose every companion had been taken from him.  He didn’t trust humans until a day before Thanksgiving in 2006, when he suddenly showed up on our back porch in North Charleston and asked to come inside and be our buddy.  He went from abject terror to allowing us to pet him with no transition that we could see, and probably very little forethought.  Even today, if you catch him on the wrong day or at an inopportune moment, he will dart from your touch as though transported back into a time and place where humans were scary, dangerous things.  Those moments clench my heart and I have to remind myself that they will pass, and he will be back on the bed head-bunting us again in no time.  

So lying there enjoying the warmth of the bed and the additional warmth of my husband and of a happy kitty or three (Reggie had also come to lie on my chest), I was struck by how poignant this whole scene felt to me.  We have six delightful cats, all of whom range in age from 16 to 10 (or, more realistically, 11).  We plan on keeping them happy and healthy for a long, long time to come.  But reality is that these moments will not last forever.  Time will eventually catch up to us, and our little family, much to my distress, will start to disintegrate.  I try not to think about it too much.  But at the same time, thinking about it reminds me to cherish every single moment with them, no matter if it comes tinged with a patina of kitty litter and cat vomit.  Every moment that we are allowed to share our lives with them is precious.  Every moment fills my heart with a love and joy that I sometimes feel unworthy of.  

The moment with Elroy and the other cats extends.  My lower back starts to ache from
being in bed too long, but I ignore the pain.  My mind floats off to the
vacuuming and laundry and emails that need to be attended to, but I force my
attention back to this moment.  Elroy indulges in a long, slow stretch
that carries him onto his back and he hangs there for a moment, all four paws
in the air, his face a vision of utter ecstasy.  He is exposing his
vulnerable underbelly to the people who once seemed so frightening, so
alien.  He trusts me enough to sleep next
to me, completely unguarded, without reservation.  Part of me feels like crying.  After all Elroy has lost—a father and several
friends to the great beyond, and a brother to adoption—his heart is still wide open.  You can see it every time he trots along
beside Otto with his tail wrapped snugly around Otto’s shoulders.  You can see it every time he tussles
playfully with Reggie, white belly exposed and inviting.  Elroy has suffered more loss in his young life
than some people experience as very old adults, and still he clings to the
belief that there is still good around every corner…that the world is a safe
and happy place…that friends abound, and love is his for the giving and taking.  Elroy has so much to teach us.

So, this weekend was one of those amazing fall weekends in the mountains that seem like some kind of magic is involved.  The sky is a perfect, crisp blue that looks like it was pulled wholesale out of a Crayola box.  The leaves have suddenly turned some combination of red, gold, orange and bronze that seem like they’ve come out of a painting.  And all weekend long, we had these powerful gusts of wind that caused the leaves to fly and careen like they were part of Hurricane Autumn or something.  Mister was transfixed.  When he wasn’t hunkered down in front of the big full-length glass doors with his head twitching at the leaves like he was having a fit, he was tearing around the house at full gallop, so full of excitement about the dancing leaves that he literally could not contain himself.

Yesterday, I took him out on his harness, which he expressed concern about.  We took Wanda and Otto out on the porch and spent a lot of time retrieving them from beside the house.  The only one who normally goes out but didn’t was Reggie.

So this afternoon, I made a point of taking Reggie out.  The sun had started its descent behind the mountain, so it was beginning to get a little chilly again.  Sean had Otto in his lap, and I was standing to the side of the house, half-heartedly keeping an eye on our Halloween cat.  (Reggie always looks like he’s dressed as a well-fed tick for Halloween.)  Reggie can’t run very fast or very far, so I confess I got a little lax in my cat-watching duties.  I always feel like I can outrun Reggie if I need to, so there’s not as much urgency needed in watching him.  

I was wrong.

I’m sure every animal parent and regular parent has them:  those moments when time seems to stand still.  And when I turned my head to see what kind of mischief Reggie had gotten himself into, I realized that Reggie had squeezed himself between the rails that ostensibly kept people safe from the 15-foot plunge to the concrete floor leading to the basement, and was proceeding to walk along the six-inch ledge with nothing separating him from that drop.  

For a few seconds, my blood seemed to run cold and my heart seemed frozen in my chest.  

I stifled a scream, and instead called for Sean, in a tone almost approximating a whisper.  Sean asked me what was up.  I asked him again to approach slowly.  Reggie seemed oblivious to the danger.  Reggie, who can barely walk a straight line due to his almost imperceptible limp.  Reggie, whose balance isn’t that great to begin with, and whose girth certainly didn’t help matters.  Reggie just walked along the ledge, with me willing him with each step not to fall; to please for the love of god just turn right and come back through the railing again.  I figured if I yelled at him, I would startle him into falling.  And if I approached him, he would probably lose his balance and fall.  Both would probably result in an ex-Reggie.  And I wasn’t ready to let go of Reggie just yet.

So I held my breath.  And I waited.  And Reggie casually took a right-hand turn away from the danger.

Reggie got a one-way human taxi-ride back inside the house after that.  A little while later, my heart stopped pounding out of my chest.  I’ve never had a cat put in so much obvious danger before, save the seven kajillion times that Mister has flown the coop.  And I hope like heck never to experience that again.  

Reggie and I will be snuggling a little bit closer tonight, I’m sure.  I’ll make sure of that.