My Cat

When I was two my mother and sister brought home a cat. Like all kittens, he was small enough to fit in the palm of your hand. He had a beautiful coat of thick, shiny, black fur that was the softest thing I had ever felt. His high pitched meow wasn’t even bothersome to me, and if you showed him enough love, his purring was loud enough to break the foundation. 

From the pictures I have from my childhood, it looked like I treated him pretty badly. Me being a young child and not possessing the necessary muscle to hold him, I often would have to grasp him round the neck, most likely cutting of needed oxygen. In all of the pictures, he looks pretty distressed. 

It wasn’t until around the age of nine that I started becoming attached to him, at least enough so that I could tell. I’m not sure what happened, but I began telling him how much I loved him, and I bringing him into my room to sleep with me at night. Since then, my love for him has increased tremendously. There is nothing or no one I care for more than my cat. This may sound weird, but he is the only thing that has stayed stable in my life. I believe he is the one who got me through my father’s death, my mother’s remarriage, and every other struggle I have experienced in my life. He is the constant, the control. He links my childhood to my quickly approaching adulthood. That’s my hypothesis. And though I can never prove it, I am sure that he loves me. Yes, there is a good chance that he could simply be responding to stimuli, he could only spend as much time with me as he does simply because he knows ill pet him, but I like to think its more than that. I like to think that maybe, he cares for me as much as I for him. I know how stupid this sounds, but regardless, I still love him. Besides, how can I use logic to explain emotion. 

My cat is now 15. This is old for a cat. Though he exhibits much of the same vitality he once did when he was only but a kitten, there is no denying that he has slowed. He purrs the same, meows the same, but when he tries to jump on my bed it is clear that age has gotten ahold of him. He will die. It’s hard for me to think of losing him. I know that when I do, I will die inside. Everything I am, all the hope I have, all the joy I have, all the love I have will leave my being, and I will be empty. Even now, as I think about this, tears begin to come. Although this love is unconventional, and abnormal to some, love has never had to be those things for it to exist. That’s my hypothesis. 

Peace.