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We'll call him Morrissey for short
Mar. 23rd, 2010 11:26 pmAs of Saturday, the ninja kitty known as Weevil will have spent 4.5 months as my roommate.
4.5 months. Still doesn't allow any touching. Still acts a lot like an emotionally unavailable boyfriend. If he were human, I'd be inclined to make fun of him for being an emo boy, with his dark, perfectly coiffed fur, his pensive green eyes, and his perpetually withdrawn demeanor.
But he's not human. He's a cat. My cat. Which means I chose him and it's my job, my responsibility, to love and accept him unconditionally. Sometimes it's not easy. Sometimes I wonder if I'm playing it too safe, if I'd be better served to scoop him up and force myself on him Elmyra-style. But then I remember how I've felt when people have invaded my personal space without my permission, and I think better of it.
I've also learned to recognize and celebrate anything that resembles progress, no matter how remote.
An example? I was sitting on my couch this evening, reviewing the printout of my novel time-line. Weeve had already made himself comfortable on the carpet under my coffee table, and he didn't scurry away when I settled in. Even better, he groomed himself for a bit and then rested his head on his front paws and closed his eyes for a nap. Stayed like that for quite some time.
I've since moved to the living room carpet myself, which is where I have my laptop set up. Weeve's scratching post is about two feet to my left. He has his butt resting against the edge of its base, and is curled up with one paw extended. He seems to be resting comfortably, the first time I've seen him do so without being safely tucked away on the seat of my desk chair.
I watch his body rise and fall with each breath, and I think about how vulnerable he is, how for once it would be sooooooo easy to just reach over and caress that beautiful black coat. But then I pause. I remember how long it's taken for him to reach that level of ease. And I decide that it's not worth the risk, that I would rather endure the pain of his rejection than see him regress because I've violated the small amount of trust I've earned.
4.5 months. Kind of a paltry span of time when you consider the fact that cats can live upwards of 20 years. That's what I have to keep telling myself. It makes it easier to believe that those headbutts from our first meeting were only the first of many.
4.5 months. Still doesn't allow any touching. Still acts a lot like an emotionally unavailable boyfriend. If he were human, I'd be inclined to make fun of him for being an emo boy, with his dark, perfectly coiffed fur, his pensive green eyes, and his perpetually withdrawn demeanor.
But he's not human. He's a cat. My cat. Which means I chose him and it's my job, my responsibility, to love and accept him unconditionally. Sometimes it's not easy. Sometimes I wonder if I'm playing it too safe, if I'd be better served to scoop him up and force myself on him Elmyra-style. But then I remember how I've felt when people have invaded my personal space without my permission, and I think better of it.
I've also learned to recognize and celebrate anything that resembles progress, no matter how remote.
An example? I was sitting on my couch this evening, reviewing the printout of my novel time-line. Weeve had already made himself comfortable on the carpet under my coffee table, and he didn't scurry away when I settled in. Even better, he groomed himself for a bit and then rested his head on his front paws and closed his eyes for a nap. Stayed like that for quite some time.
I've since moved to the living room carpet myself, which is where I have my laptop set up. Weeve's scratching post is about two feet to my left. He has his butt resting against the edge of its base, and is curled up with one paw extended. He seems to be resting comfortably, the first time I've seen him do so without being safely tucked away on the seat of my desk chair.
I watch his body rise and fall with each breath, and I think about how vulnerable he is, how for once it would be sooooooo easy to just reach over and caress that beautiful black coat. But then I pause. I remember how long it's taken for him to reach that level of ease. And I decide that it's not worth the risk, that I would rather endure the pain of his rejection than see him regress because I've violated the small amount of trust I've earned.
4.5 months. Kind of a paltry span of time when you consider the fact that cats can live upwards of 20 years. That's what I have to keep telling myself. It makes it easier to believe that those headbutts from our first meeting were only the first of many.
