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A meditation on companion animals
Fri, Nov. 22nd, 2013 08:38 amI don't have children. I wanted them very much, but I wanted to share the experience, not to do it alone. I thought about that decision hard and for a very long time. I thought about doing it myself, friends or lovers I might ask to be donors. I thought about what raising a child alone might be like. I didn't want it, not because I thought it would be hard, but because I wanted a particular kind of experience for any child I might have, and I wasn't sure I could provide it by myself. Since I've never managed to find a life partner with whom to share them, I don't have children.
What I have is cats.
When my third cat, Merlin (that's him in the icon there), was old, he became a heat-seeker because he got so thin and frail that he was always cold. This meant that he'd spend a lot of time on my lap or my chest. (Also, on top of the TV, by the baseboard heaters, and so on.) Something that I never noticed with Blackie or Flatbush, but that I noticed with Merlin because he was so thin, was that as he settled onto me and fell asleep, I could feel him breathing, sighing and, sometimes, I could feel his purr or heartbeat against my leg or my chest: completely vulnerable, completely OK with that. I remember the first time I felt it: it was a little awe-inspiring, because my first thought was, "His life is in my hands." I never thought of having a companion animal in that way before. I have never not appreciated that since then.
Sophie is curled up on my lap as I type this now, and I can feel the vibration of her purr against my leg. She is completely relaxed. It implies a complete trust that I find both remarkable and humbling. I am responsible for her health, happiness and safety. The trust implied in her surrendering herself to sleep in my lap both willingly and, in fact, rather insisting upon it, never fails to impress me. I guess I'm doing something right.
I worry sometimes that she gets bored or lonely. I worry that Zeke isn't quite the right companion for her (or she for him), no matter how marvelous I think he is. I worry that I don't provide him with enough stimulation; he's so assertive about play. I worry that he feels rejected when I just can't accommodate him for one reason or another. I worry that Sophie gets jealous that I play with Zeke more than I do with her because he's so pushy about it.
I don't know if this experience has anything in common with parenthood. It has been suggested to me that it's folly to compare the experiences. And yet, this is what I've got. I've raised four cats from kittenhood, and all I can hope is that I've been at least as good a companion to them as they have been to me. Better I hope. More aware. They wait for me when I'm gone; Sophie is always on the steps to the front door when I arrive home. Sometimes, but not always, Zeke waits there, too. It's my obligation to make their time interesting, comfortable, healthy and safe. I do the best I can.
So these are my companions. They're smart and funny and mischievous. I want to be worthy of the complete trust implied when I feel them relax completely on my lap, take a deep breath, and exhale with a purr.
What I have is cats.
When my third cat, Merlin (that's him in the icon there), was old, he became a heat-seeker because he got so thin and frail that he was always cold. This meant that he'd spend a lot of time on my lap or my chest. (Also, on top of the TV, by the baseboard heaters, and so on.) Something that I never noticed with Blackie or Flatbush, but that I noticed with Merlin because he was so thin, was that as he settled onto me and fell asleep, I could feel him breathing, sighing and, sometimes, I could feel his purr or heartbeat against my leg or my chest: completely vulnerable, completely OK with that. I remember the first time I felt it: it was a little awe-inspiring, because my first thought was, "His life is in my hands." I never thought of having a companion animal in that way before. I have never not appreciated that since then.
Sophie is curled up on my lap as I type this now, and I can feel the vibration of her purr against my leg. She is completely relaxed. It implies a complete trust that I find both remarkable and humbling. I am responsible for her health, happiness and safety. The trust implied in her surrendering herself to sleep in my lap both willingly and, in fact, rather insisting upon it, never fails to impress me. I guess I'm doing something right.
I worry sometimes that she gets bored or lonely. I worry that Zeke isn't quite the right companion for her (or she for him), no matter how marvelous I think he is. I worry that I don't provide him with enough stimulation; he's so assertive about play. I worry that he feels rejected when I just can't accommodate him for one reason or another. I worry that Sophie gets jealous that I play with Zeke more than I do with her because he's so pushy about it.
I don't know if this experience has anything in common with parenthood. It has been suggested to me that it's folly to compare the experiences. And yet, this is what I've got. I've raised four cats from kittenhood, and all I can hope is that I've been at least as good a companion to them as they have been to me. Better I hope. More aware. They wait for me when I'm gone; Sophie is always on the steps to the front door when I arrive home. Sometimes, but not always, Zeke waits there, too. It's my obligation to make their time interesting, comfortable, healthy and safe. I do the best I can.
So these are my companions. They're smart and funny and mischievous. I want to be worthy of the complete trust implied when I feel them relax completely on my lap, take a deep breath, and exhale with a purr.