She’s a rescue. If it isn’t her idea, it isn’t happening. Our furry gal, Irene calls the shots. Her claws are sharp and from the beginning, she’s assumed the worst. Always protecting herself against imaginary threats. For nearly a year she has skirted up against me, marking me as her own with the passing caress of her fat cheeks. But always on her terms. Her choice. She has positioned herself next to me as I sit, close enough to supervise me when I’m in motion, and watchfully above me, peering down from her vantage point on the back of the couch as if she is the lioness and I am her prey. After months she receives affection freely but from me, only in the form of food delivered in a timely manner and the nose scratches she brazenly requests, each and every time I walk into the house. (Even if I’ve only been gone 30 seconds.) I’ve had cats for most of my 60 years and all of my other cats have sought and claimed my lap as their own. Not this girl. It has taken ten months for her carefully posed questions…the soft staccato squeaks and mews…to turn into this morning’s familiar sensation of pointy (and surprisingly heavy) feet wandering across the waiting expanse of my ribcage. (I say expanse because there have been entirely too many cookies this last six weeks.) On this final day of the year, while I was still groggy with sleep, Irene commenced a familiar ritual circling to find her landing spot. It was just a few trips around until her padded feet tucked under in surrender, finally nestling with a contented whisker-framed exhale into the newfound nest she made of my torso. I almost wept. It has been 2 years and 7 months since we lost Jasmine. Somehow I’d forgotten the comforting weight of a cat.
