Twice each night, at about 2 and 4 a.m., I go the kitchen for some peanut butter and pink lemonade. This is a very normal thing for a 68-year-old man to do. My three-legged cat Luigi hears me bumping about the cupboards and he comes up from the rec room and clomps his way over to the loveseat where I am commanded to sit and cuddle him. The little fella lost a leg to cancer this summer and we thought he was in the clear, but now we aren’t so sure. We hope he can share one more Christmas with us so he can get a new toy and have his Fancy Feast.
So I sit in near darkness and start rubbing while he rolls on his back, then his side, and head butts me in my belly. Sometimes I look down to see him staring at me. I look into his eyes. It’s almost as though he knows something. Cats know. I grew up with them on the farm. When her life was nearing an end, she would disappear to keep the predators away from their broods. A few days or weeks later, we’d find her body in a bush or behind the shed. Or I imagine his eyes saying, “Thank you,” “I love you too”, or, “More scratching behind my left ear, please.” My imagination is too vivid, I’ve been told.
So Luigi cavorts by my leg and can’t get enough petting. He wraps his one remaining front leg around my wrist. I nod off to sleep. This cannot be, says the cat, as I feel his claws dig into my skin. I wake up and start rubbing again. This repeats two or three times. Nod off, claws inserted, start rubbing. This is my 2 o’clock feeding. The routine will repeat at 4 a.m. And during the day, if he sees me sitting on the couch, he clomps across the living room and presses up against me as well. He seems to need that. Strangely enough, perhaps, so do I. He’s finding comfort. I’m making memories.
All beings are spiritual. And when spirits meet, in whatever shells we might be residing, there is peace. I don’t think I will ever forget those big eyes looking into mine.
©2019 Jim Hagarty
