The Love of my Cat
I love my cat. Not in a “he’s cute and fluffy” kind of way, but because of his character.
If that sounds a bit creepy, let me explain:
My cat is a good hunter. I’ve lost count of the amount of times he’s brought me a “present” with a big pleased face and a thunderous purr. If he wanted to he could live without me. He’s perfectly capable of sustaining himself, living in the countryside that surrounds my house. But he doesn’t. He still comes home every night and sleeps on my bed. Sometimes, when it’s cold, he even climbs into bed with me and sleeps next to me, all soft and velvety and rumbling with happiness. He rubs his little face against mine when I wake up in the morning, and when I’m sad he jumps on my lap and licks the tears from my face.
He doesn’t need to do any of these things. Being friendly with me is not necessary to his survival, it’s a choice. He lives with me because, for whatever reason, he wants to. What ever the cat analogue for “love” is, it is his own free will to feel that way about me. He “loves” me not because he needs me, but because he seems to feel that loving me in some way rewards and improves his life.
I am important to him, not because I’m useful, not simply because I’m there, not just because I give him warmth, but because there is something that defies articulation drawing him forever back to me. Something immaterial that exists in nothing but the act of love itself.
He actually wants me for being me (however much a cat can feel such things). And I treasure that so, so much. For Isaac, I can just be myself and that is enough. For Isaac, I have neither deficiency nor insufficiency. I’m not perfect, but for Isaac I am prefect enough.
And I am grateful that another living creature finds me adequate. It is, in these times, a rare privilege.
So I don’t care if it seems effeminate or obsessive. I really love my Isaac.
