An animal is simply not as important as a human being. But a pet is a significant second in importance to someone imbued with the animal loving gene. I am such a person. I am enamored of all animals, even the ones I am a bit afraid of, like horses, and I think I always have been. No doubt there is some psychological substitution or projection or sublimation involved. So be it. It is, as they say, what it is. I admit that I judge new people in my life by two things, the strength of their handshakes (the two fingered wet and weak shake is utter doom) and whether they like animals. It is not essential necessarily that they like the same animals that I do, but not to like ANY animal leave me suspicious. It's a positive bonus if they love not only dogs, but my special favorite, the feline. I have always thought my mother was a familiar, having some magical connection with them. I may have inherited that ability. I almost don't have to seek them out. They come to me, or to my vicinity. Maybe it's just the food and its future promise. Maybe it's something more cosmic. It doesn't matter to my enjoyment.
My mother's cat guarded me in the crib when I was a child. The relatives exhorted, "it'll smother the baby!". Depending on the relative, I was probably better off with the cat. I am joking! I think.
I have owned, and/or been owned, by about 7, inside and out of my apartment since I moved to California. Oops, make that 9, I got a couple of new boys about three years ago, two bruisers. (The outside cats were not mine originally. They were either strays that came to my small but secure backyard, or, as in the case of Ellwood, they were an orange cat that ran away from living home alone (my next door neighbor was often away) and ended up with the crowd. He was definitely low man on the cat totem pole, but happier for the company. My first California cat--I had him before I had furniture-died at 18, while being treated for some never diagnosed condition beyond old age. One outside cat was 18 when he died naturally. I took in his near twin, Bud, because there was a neighbor cat (aptly named Diablo) who was trying to hasten his demise and Bud was no longer able to maintain his place as the king of the roost. Bud lasted three more years until I had to take him to the vet in a final emergency, and with the clinic cat Kibble, in empathic attendance, Bud was put asleep. My thinking of all of them comes rushing in because of Trouble. Trouble, my fluffy girl tabby, used to be able to jump to the top of my French windows and stand at the top edge triumphantly looking down at me. "Nothing YOU can do!" her glance confirmed. She was quintessentially curious. It was probably her curiosity that got her lost from wherever she used to live and put her at my front door. She must have been about six months old. Kittenish, but not a baby. I once couldn't find her and figured she was hiding, and when I opened the refrigerator, there she was on the lower shelf, butt facing outward. Another time, she singed her whiskers checking out a pot on the stove. Time passed, and she is nearly 19 years old. Tonight she is in a clinic, possibly with kidney failure, and worse, if it is diagnosed with hyperthyroidism, her prognosis is a too soon final one. And yet, I don't think she's ready to go. I can feel it. Even as those close to me say, "why spend the money?" either with words or their eyes, she has given that little animal, with her purrs and her softness, with an essence that is distinctly hers, to me. She has been part of my survival, as were the others. And she deserves my very best as her caretaker. The money is the least I can do to give her a chance at a couple more comfortable naps on the top left corner of my bed, giving herself a full body stretch, and then looking to me for food by knocking a water bottle from my headboard right next to my sleepy head with a well placed paw.
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