A pause for paws: A love letter to cats

Mark Twain once said: “When a man loves cats, I am his friend and comrade, without further introduction.”

It's safe to say that I whole heartedly agree.

Pets have walked in and out of my life since I was a baby. I learned to crawl with a dutiful spaniel by my side and I grew up with a fondness for everything from goldfish to horses, but I've always had a special relationship with cats.

The first pet I could ever really call my own was a cat. Her name was Daisy and she was a champagne coloured tabby that radiated warmth and charm. People who hated cats loved her - that's just how charming Daisy was. I got her as a kitten when I was five and she quickly became my soulmate. We would bump our foreheads together in greeting, she'd keep me company on lonely days, and she'd sleep by my pillow to chase away the bad dreams. Our bond was so strong that I was certain we'd been together a lot longer than it may appear. You see, when I was little I was convinced that I had lived a past life and when I met Daisy I was sure that she'd been with me in that life, that she'd been my cat before. She'd often look me straight in the eye with a steady gaze and I could tell that she knew what I was feeling, or thinking, and she'd respond without me having to say a word. She was the most intuitive animal I've ever met. She also gave me a wonderful gift - the second cat I ever called my own - her daughter, Ginger.

Daisy curled up by my side.

Ginger was fat and full of purrs. She trusted me completely, so I could do any number of ridiculous things to her (dress her up in a hoodie, drive her around as a passenger in my Barbie car, or cuddle her upside down) and she would merely smile, purr, or fall asleep. Ginger may have been loving, but she also had a cheeky side, and if she didn't like you she'd show it in the sneakiest way possible; she'd make you stink. Ginger had the most atrocious smelling farts and if she was picked up by someone she despised she would stay very still and then let loose a deadly smelling gas. I observed this behaviour on a number of occasions and it always made me laugh. Ginger looked so unassuming when people were cooing over her that no one ever expected her to covertly attack them with her flatulence. Once she farted on someone they never wanted to handle her again, so she'd waddle away knowing she was free from dealing with that person forever. However, if this large, gassy, orange and white tabby loved you she loved you with her entire being (which is a lot because she was super obese.) Her love was the generous kind and she was always trying to take care of me. I used to come home after school and curl up with a bowl of popcorn to watch Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and The Simpsons on TV. Once, when I was sitting on the floor with my popcorn bowl resting in my lap Ginger sidled up, dropped something in the bowl, and then sat squarely in front of me with the most pleased expression on her face. I went to reach for a handful of corn and stopped abruptly when I realized she'd dropped a dead mouse into the bowl. I stifled my cry of surprise and thanked her for the lovely gift... she just kept giving me this look that said "see, see what I've brought you. Food! And I put it in your food bowl." The fattest cat on earth had literally passed up on eating this juicy mouse in order to place it in her owner's food dish - if that's not love, I don't know what is.

If I have back problems today it's because of carrying Ginger.

Mark Twain and I are not the only writers who love cats. Truman Capote, Edgar Allan Poe, Jack Kerouac, Neil Gaiman, and Ernest Hemingway are just a few authors who've had strong bonds with felines, the latter even having a type of cat named after him (six-toed cats are known as Hemingway cats.)

I never understood authors' apparent predilection to cats until I met Ophelia - my third cat. She was a true writer's companion. I often spend hours at my computer researching stories, transcribing interviews, and writing articles, and Ophelia used to sit by my side the entire time with no complaint. She liked to stretch out over my notes, and would listen attentively as I read aloud to her. This long-haired, white beauty was a Turkish Angora. Her breed is a talkative one, so I was never short of conversation while I was working. If I asked Ophelia her opinion on something she'd respond with a chirp, a low meow, or a high pitched purr and I'd sometimes reconsider a line or two depending on her response. There was only one occasion when Ophelia pushed me away from my work and it was when I stayed up to write a magazine feature. I was so absorbed that I didn't realize the time until she pushed her head to my chest forcing me to lean back and see that it was 2:00am. I looked at her as she kept shoving her head at my heart and I finally said "ok, time for bed" at which point she jumped off the table and walked to my room, her sleepy owner trailing behind her. Only a true writer cat knows when to turn away from the page and face the pillow instead.

Ophelia, the Lois Lane of cats. 

After each of these beautiful, caring, charismatic cats has died I have been devastated. I have cried harder after losing them than I have for anything because they were the source of the kind of love only a pet can provide - unconditional love. After each parting I feel like I can never love any cat as much as I loved the last, but I always manage to find one that steals my heart again.

This time around it's Yorick, the fluffy, black kitten that my partner and I have recently adopted, who has tugged at my heartstrings. His Shakespearian name, inspired by my last lovely girl, suits him to a T. He's clever, affectionate, and has a sneaky sense of humour - already playing the jester and amusing us to no end. How quickly we fall in love with tiny paws and big purrs.

Yorick the jester. 

My shadow: insecurity

In the words of Jon Lajoie, "I'm just a regular everyday normal guy." I have good days and I have bad ones. I'm fortunate that my good moments outnumber the bad, but when they don't insecurity follows me like a shadow.

In certain light the shadow gets bigger, more menacing, and I'm afraid to turn around and see how far it stretches behind me. It can cast shade on all sorts of things: my writing, my body, my relationships, my dreams. 

Sometimes I'm able to talk myself out of letting this shadow, that's coloured with doubt and the memories of past experiences, get to me. I'm able to beat it back until it's small and grey and insignificant, but not always. There are days when the shadow wins. It swallows all my confidence and pride and leaves me questioning everything that I appreciate in my life. On days like that I want to turn off the light; shadows can't be seen in the dark. 

I hate doing that though because it's challenging to get things done in the dark and, like it or not, I always have things to take care of. I often turn to that line in Baz Luhrumann's Everybody's Free (to Wear Sunscreen) that says "remember the compliments you receive. Forget the insults." That phrase acts like a nightlight to me when the room goes dark. I think back and find the best things people have said to me and use them to create so much light that it makes the shadow seem small again. 

Today, however, I tried something different. In a moment of self-doubt, when questions flooded my mind and the shadow started to grow, I decided to embrace my insecurity. I didn't try and fight it, instead I felt it take over and thought "this is how you feel right now. Acknowledge it." I decided to see my insecurity as a strength - it demonstrates how much I care, it helps me relate to others, it means I'm human. 

I'm going to keep reminding myself that I'm only human. 

Me on a good day. 

Permission to slow down

Last night I was at a party speaking to a beautiful stranger about her wonderful sounding life.

She said she was a production assistant, she's married, lives on a nice street, and she's a mom to two adorable children, but you wouldn't know it to look at her - she works out. She said how much having kids changes you and that as soon as she had hers she realized she needed to slow down. As if having a family gives you an excuse, permission, a reason to take it a bit easier.

This remark hit me because just recently I was reminiscing about a weekend when I slowed down. It was in the late winter and I had a sore throat. The sore throat turned into an irritating cough, which kept me awake, and made my whole body hurt. I lost my voice. I had to cancel my plans to go out, catch a play, get stuff done around the house, work on a story, and instead was grounded on the couch with a pot of tea, a pile of blankets, books, and a list of movies I'd been meaning to watch. I spent the entire weekend resting and trying to feel better so I could go back to work on Monday.

Not too long ago a friend asked me how I was doing and I said "this is going to sound weird, but I wish I was sick." And then I told her about that weekend I'd spent in late winter doing nothing but resting and how I wished I could do that now, but I had so much to do that I'd feel guilty if I sat down with a book. For me, being sick was like getting permission to slow down. Although it sounded morbid to wish for illness, I knew my friend would understand my meaning. She sympathized and said she knew exactly where I was coming from. We were in similar boats, adrift on twin seas, and both of us wanted to drop anchor and just be still for a while.

It bothers me that I feel the need to have a reason to take it easy. That when I don't have a reason I feel guilty for not being "productive" and that I'm "wasting time." I lead an active life, work multiple jobs, and have ambitious goals, and I should be able to relax guilt-free, yet I struggle with this on a constant basis.

After speaking with the beautiful stranger last night - working mother of two, fit, well-dressed, and fun - I realized that I didn't want to wait until I had kids, or was sick, in order to slow down. I should be able to give myself permission to take it easy whenever I feel the need. I should be able to curl up and be still and not feel as if I'm going to fail if I don't get everything done as soon as possible.

I hate when people use the phrase "make time," as if time was something you can build with the right tools, but right now it's the best combination of words I can think of for my new goal. I need to start making more time to take it easy and not wait for that winter cold to lay me up. I started trying today.

I watched a movie, and then I watched another one. I flipped through a novel, drank tea, and stayed in my pyjamas. I took a nap and slept for a solid hour. I watched the birds and squirrels jump around in the tree outside my window. I'm hoping this will become a habit.

I could learn a lot from cats. They nap like pros.