Good morning everyone and welcome to Thursday’s Morning Open Thread.
Morning Open Thread is a daily, copyrighted post from a host of editors and guest writers. We support our community, invite and share ideas, and encourage thoughtful, respectful dialogue in an open forum.
I’ve come to think of this post as one where you come for the music and stay for the conversation—so feel free to drop a note. The diarist gets to sleep in if she so desires and can show up long after the post is published. So you know, it's a feature, not a bug.
Join us, please.
This is the story of an old cat. A dozen years ago, come this December, a stray appeared on my patio (not even a week after I moved in). Rough looking, intemperate when it came to food, incontinent from what I could divine from his lack of grooming, a few open wounds, and ribs showing. Grey with faded white stripes underneath and a broken tail two inches from the tip. But he had something that wanted. Something that refused to let go and his presence was a statement. It took most of the winter to get within an arms length of him and I called him Bob.
By late winter we trusted each at least enough that I could treat for fleas and clean up some of the scratches, though fresh wounds would appear every week or so. Our relationship got to the point where he would let me take peroxide to his skin without his shredding my own. And by late spring he would sit in my lap and deign to give me his company for moments here and there. He fattened up, healed, and would visit most days. By the following winter he was taking advantage of the cardboard box and the Dollar General blanket I put in a sheltered spot on the patio, venturing inside my house when I left the doors wide open. We had an understanding: he was there when I needed him and I was around if he ever needed company.
Just shy of two years in—it was the first of a few blistering cold fronts that came in suddenly—he would plant himself on the rug I have inside the front door and even make himself comfortable on the end of my bed in the night, making sure to be back on the rug by the time I rose. He wasn’t talkative and rarely shared, but he and I had an understanding and it worked for us for a few years. By the time he disappeared, he was hanging around most days and ate every meal on my patio. A fine looking animal and one that respected what I asked of him and expected little from me beyond the food and water.
The thing with strays, though, is you have to accept that they aren’t permanent. They aren’t “yours” in any sense of the word. They have their own lives, like occasional lovers and spontaneous flings—and they remind you of that unspoken understanding just about the time you begin to think otherwise. It was an early spring day some three years and three months in that he didn’t show. Disappearing happened, here and there, as was his wont. Usually a couple days, maybe a week every so often. But that couple days stretched to a week and then weeks and then months and then seasons passed.
That’s the thing with strays. They do that, knowing full well (and not caring) that we will worry about them.
The latest of the group that hangs around—a orange tabby I call Bobbie-Joe, born with a two-inch tail—disappeared about three weeks ago; her sister (Bobbie-Jean) is still here but clearly misses her. As do I. She is an ill-tempered cat. Scrawny and mean and down right vicious to anything that moves (and the best mouser in the neighborhood). But she occupies my house like she owns it and I sometimes spend an aggravating half hour in the early morning trying to find her and get her out between breakfast and when I needed to head to work. She’s made me late more than once. And though she refuses to let me touch her, she slept at the foot of my bed for going on three winters.
Friends would tell you that animals take to me. What I would add—and they wouldn’t, because they’re friends—is that this special trait doesn’t work outside most dogs and cats. My history of relationships, when it comes to humans, is for shit and, though I have nothing to be proud about when it comes to that part of my character, I have grown to accept my limitations. We circle each other, slightly less suspicious each day, and we get along. Just so we recognize the impermanence in life that vibrates and echoes through the fibers of every relationship.
She—the errant Bobbie-Joe—has been gone for three weeks as of this coming Sunday. And while I’m concerned, I’m also somehow accepting of that fact. After all, Bob was gone for a little over four years before he showed up at my back door, looking fit and the cat equivalent of content. I see him almost every week or so now; and though he keeps his distance, he will sometimes meet my truck in the evening and let me scratch his chin. That’s the thing about strays. They love you, but only in secret.
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Be well, be kind, and appreciate the love you have in your life.
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Grab your coffee or tea and join us, please.
What's on your mind this morning?