Shortly, I will be driving over to our daughter's house. There, once I have parked the car, I will take out the key, open the door just in time to see a grey flash whiz past my feet as Willow makes her escape to their back yard. Tail twitching, she will survey the scene for prey, a patch of ground for a toilet place, and any potential sources of trouble. Experience has told our daughter and I that she will also seek a place where she can vanish for an hour or two to a place with different prey, different smells, and perhaps a sense that the world is so much bigger than the space to which her humans confine her.
Willow came to us about 10 years ago, an emaciated rural rescue cat at the bottom of a large cardboard box in the arms of our daughter, who hoped that we wouldn't be upset that she had brought home this small creature on a night in late November. Willow wound up staying with us, bringing a new level of trust and comfort to our home. In the early days, she would drape herself on the top of the back of my wife Joyce's recliner as she watched tv. Willow would lay there for long stretches, purring at the start, sleeping as long as Joyce didn't move.
We learned the depths of Willow's profound hunger when, on our getting up of a morning, we would find a loaf of bread broken into and chewed--a loaf of bread on top of the dishwasher, well above the floor. We could feel Willow's ribs under her skin when we petted her.
She was deeply fearful of the outdoors for a long while. Perhaps she remembered the cold and hungry times from before she came to us, and feared being swallowed up by them again--she couldn't tell us. And yet one day when spring heated toward summer, she gave us no uncertain signs that she wanted out. We went through a collar and leash for her before her Houdini-like abilities asserted themselves, and we gave that all up for simple careful watching. She learned (as did we) that a simple bound cleared our fences, that she could explore safely other places beyond our yard, yet be secure in knowing that our shelter and food supplies were always there for her. More darkly, squirrels and chipmunks and birds were accessible prey--she was a successful hunter several times before we realized that her survival instincts had not been left at the doorway of our house. Sometimes, she dropped her kill in front of our daughter, her rescuer. Willow had a long memory.
When my daughter from a previous marriage died, Willow became a furry therapist. Her presence on my lap was comforting in the grief time, when I was ready for comforting. I wasn't always. I was frequently, unreasonably angry. Willow was frequently, unreasonably on my lap or rubbing against my legs, whatever my mood. Eventually, with time and therapy (beyond Willow), and Grace, I got back on the horse of life and rode on.
Now, I am about to drive over and see that Willow gets her supper, honouring her feline addiction to habit (very like mine). And some outdoor time in our daughter's back yard.
Willow's tail will twitch, her sign of profound interest in her surroundings. Her tail is maybe 10 centimeters shorter than it would be if it had grown without injury from her birth. The tips of her ears would also be present, as they are not. Frostbite. A kitten unprotected early from life, who bears her scars as an adult.
As do I. What's left of my psychological tail twitches as I breathe in the peace of our daughter's yard, and my ears, though failing, seek all that is alive in my surroundings. Willow and I are at home in life...
No comments:
Post a Comment