Since my cat lost
her right front leg, I haven't heard
the sound of a little thing
batting at the bauble that hangs from my bedroom doorknob,
or pulling up the carpet in the living room.
I no longer dangle ribbons or catnip mice in front of her,
nor drag them across her belly to entice her to attack.
She still tries to eat them and juggle them as she once did,
but she loses her balance easily. And she hasn't played fetch in months.
She no longer splashes the water out of her dish,
but I see her staring longingly into the bowl, and
I wonder what her joys are anymore.

She wriggles easily from my grasp and doesn’t let herself be held,
but even so, I dampen a towel to wash her face for her.
Sometimes she lets me.

She'll purr.
I won't claim she doesn't,
but it's different now.
And the sound of her motor in the stillness of all else--
nothing knocking gently against my door at night,
no clicking of claws shredding knotted carpet fibers,
no jaws gnashing at toys as she pulls them to her mouth,
no quiet splashing from the foyer first thing in the morning--
makes me think of resilience
and compromise.
Because somehow, though she lost part of herself
and many of her favorite things,
my cat's found a way to be content.
And after all,
she still gallops down the hall ahead of me,
only these days, I can tell she thinks we're racing.

08/07/2009

Posted on 08/08/2009
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