I have a cat called Stripes, with white chest and paws, while the rest of his fur is intersected by a thick grey stripes, which, according to some of the people who saw him, form a shape of an eye on his neck.
At first, one can easily be swept away by his easy-going ways. He is fluffy, approachable, very relaxed and purrs almost instantaneously, providing you with a sense of comfort and calm. Until he doesn’t.
When in the mood for contact, he would brush against my leg. I would sense its paw on my arm while sunbathing in the garden – short-lasting interactions with no plans, means and end to them - brief and almost imperceptible, like a breeze of a light summer wind. I would pick him up and sing him songs, brush him or play with him and he would respond with variable reactions – from reciprocity and interest to indifference or irritation. At times, it would feel like the only reason he is interacting with me is the hunger or thirst. He would ignore me for days and even weeks and occasionally appear when hungry.
At one point, I remember giving up on friendship and mutual understanding. No way to know around that cat. But then he sneaked up on me while I was sleeping and positioned himself on my legs. I remember it woke me up and, there in the darkness and silence of the night, I felt a tiny little heartbeat against my skin, a rapid drumming of Stripes’ heart. So small and vulnerable he felt lying there on my legs. And soon after that a wave of warmth spread throughout my bones. What is it called? Is it love? Tenderness? Is it closeness or comfort? It felt so warm, so eternal. A tiny little heartbeat. Never forced or expected and maybe because of that, so miraculously beautiful.
And all I knew then was that drumming, that warmth. I forgot everything else, I’d better, as it was not meant to last long, just a few heartbeats and then off to the imagined or real mice chase.
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