The kitten that I have been feeding gourmet cat food and canned salmon is still the finicky Ferrell thing it was one month ago when I found it. My dad went out and got it a pet carrier so that I could ease it into the space and then capture it gently to take to the vet. I put the food in his carrier, along with a soft towel, and still when I approach he darts out and glares at me until I’m at an acceptable distance so that he can return to his carefully mixed meal. He won’t let me touch him. He’s not mine. He’s still a stray.
My entire life I’ve been collecting strays. My parents used to joke about it when I was young. The kid on the playground that swung alone would end up at our front door. They would come in and take my barbies. I would always be Ken. They would claim me as best friend and then take my lunch. I mean, I would give them my lunch. It never occurred to me that relationships were give and take, and that when I gave them my cookies they should hand me an apple, or a hug, or a handwritten note with a Lisa Frank sticker.
But I like this part of who I am. When I give out cookies, or catfood, or love it’s because I want the recipient to feel good. I want them to feel full. However, it’s my propensity for taking in the broken and helpless that begins to leave me feeling unfulfilled.
My fingers ache for this kitten. I want scratch behind it’s ears. I want to run my hand down his back and circle his tail. I want him to rub his whiskers against my jeans.
My body aches for large warm hands to smooth it. I want someone to lie down beside me and brush out my hair.
Did you know that I almost never have my hair this long? I’ve kept it short since I was in middle school. Now that it brushes across my shoulder blades, I don’t know how to keep the tangles out.
I may never pet this cat. Most likely I’ll have to close the crate on him when he doesn’t expect it. I’ll have to terrify him. Take him to the vet to get his shots and some vital part of his reproductive history completely removed. When I release him, he will hiss and bolt. I may never see him again.
But I’ll still go out. Night after night with the little babe following behind. I’ll mix his food with the right proportions, and I’ll put it in the yellow and orange rooster bowl. I’ll leave it out for him, even if it turns out that it’s only the ants that I’m feeding.
My picture of the day, taken just a few minutes ago.
Too many late nights with the baby bean and too much to do before the big party has left me feeling less than energetic.
Onward and upward!