Cat Scratch Fever

I came down with a case of feline fever yesterday.  I suppose I should have seen it coming.   After all, cats fascinate me, although mostly from afar. 

Growing up, I didn't have a lot of exposure to cats, aside from Boots Johnson, our most excellent next-door-neighbor cat whose name sounds like it belonged to a 70's jazz saxophonist.  On the occasions I have actually gotten to pet a cat, I usually walk away grateful to have escaped with nothing more than a phlegmatic clearing of the throat and a slight swelling of the eyes.

Once, when face to face with a pair of Maine Coons, I simply didn't care what price I'd pay to pet those beautiful beasts.  It was like being at the zoo and slipping into the cage of a lynx family, so exotic were these large, striped, wild-looking cats.  They took my breath away.  Literally.  And my eyes were swollen for days.  But I would not trade that experience for anything, even an epi pen.

But back to yesterday's fever, one tinged not with Claritin D so much as with grief and concern.  My good friend Kristie awoke yesterday knowing that, by mid morning, she'd have to say goodbye to her fine friend Freckles, a formerly homeless cat who was lucky enough to find the key to Kristie's front door.  And her heart.  They became fast friends, delighting in their time together.

What a strange thing to wake with the burden of holding another's fate in your hands. There is a heaviness in knowing what the other does not--that this is the last bowl of milk, the final brushing, the words that mark the end.  Her vet--who is mine, as well--was gentle and loving and quietly supportive during the final moments of Freckle's life.  And there was a sense of peace, tinged with deep sadness, that came with that last act of compassion.

I know that my friend will be okay.  I also know that some other lucky feline will slink its way into her front door and realize that he has found his nirvana.  Lucky them. 

I look outside as I type this,  wondering when the day will finally break.  It is 7 a.m. and still the inky black skies prevail. And so I wonder about the fate of another cat, a thin, black fellow who met Finn's enthusiasm, head on, yesterday afternoon.  In the final leg of that chase, the cat skittered up the backyard fence and high into the neighbor's Oak, settling on a slim branch that offered just enough space between the cat and the dog to bring a bit of peace to that cat.

An hour later--close to the time when the sun would head to bed--that cat was still there, perched and alert, if not exactly comfortable.

And now I wonder if that cat spent the night in the tree, both safe and trapped.  I look impatiently to the skies, waiting for the first rays of dawn to wend their way between the stars and bring me news of this cat.

I truly hope I won't see its dark outline tucked tight among the arms of those branches.  It was a cold night, after all, and Finn was just playing.  But, until the day lightens, I worry about a cat whose name I do not know, hoping, this time, that it is not me who knows what the cat does not yet realize.  And so, I send a prayer to the heavens, for a lithe, black being whose agility is both gift and burden:

God, let there be absence where there was dark being.
Tell me that this young feline
is swatting young mice among the dead grasses of a backyard garden,
oblivious to the chase that
haunted its twilight moments.