It Gets You Down

I wrote an entry on the ferry back from Galiano, but I'm not sure I want to post it. Feel like it shows a bit too much of myself, despite its meandering qualities. I feel self-conscious about it.

My cat's being given away. Kilo's being given to another home. And for all that I love Rozsa, for all that she gives me joy and is a wonderful companion, I'm going to be sad to give up my favourite cat in the world. It's my curse that I am always attracted to the animals that give me the least affection... the one who, for whatever reason, distrusts my attentions, or otherwise have a nature that is hard to win. Kilo had that sort of nature, an independent mind who was slow to change and not always at ease in a home setting. Ironic how the farther I go into his domain - the outdoors, pried away from this computer screen - the faster I am to losing him.

The times that he was most affectionate with me was in the outside area, the back garden. He'd greet me with his tiny, childish mew and rub against my hand and ankles, be with me for just a while in his true home domain. I, in my childish immaturity, never made enough of a connection to be with him more often... and then I went away to Vancouver, to pursue different ambitions, and avoid what I saw was an inevitable fate of trying and failing at what I was born to do.

And in doing so, I forever estranged myself from my favorite cat. It'd take maybe a week for him to accept me back into the household, rub against my legs like he used to, and then I'd be gone again - I'd never really get back the relationship that made me love him. Maybe this wouldn't be so devastating to another person, but I seem to have been born without empathy for young children... all of it is reserved for domestic animals, companions throughout my life.

It is true, that my cat is leaving this house for another one (at least we aren't putting him down) but the truth is that all my memories of him are somewhat idyllic... a world in which I stayed behind and learned to come to him, and love him in his environment instead of trying to make him come to me, to mine.

I don't think it's fair to say he was really my cat, in truth. He was my sister's cat, as she was the one who raised him, and she was my mom's cat, for he'd always be sleeping in her room during the night. He was only very rarely my cat, for all that I cherished those moments and wished for more.

I am cursed with an attraction for the aloof... perhaps this may bleed into my life beyond pet animals, or perhaps not. But that is how I retain my patience... that is how I wait, and wait for the animal to come to me, and get used to me, and let me scratch under its chin, and maybe behind its ears, and then try not to spook it with sudden movements. I am patient because the payoff can be extraordinary, because when the cat or dog is finally there for a reason beyond a treat or some food, when he or she comes just to be there with me, be friendly with me, then I stop everything I'm doing right there to be with this new friend of mine. It's a joy for me, to win the affection of an animal that's paranoid, or wild, or distrustful.

I suppose that's why the loss of Kilo is devastating. His bearing captured my fancy and a bit of my imagination, to the point where I suppose I'll have a fondness with maine coons for the rest of my days. The fact that I'll never spend those days under the sun with him, in the garden, drives me to grief. Yes, maybe I could visit him one day, in his new home, but it wouldn't give me any closure, would it? Change for him is always a slow wave. He wouldn't get comfortable around me.

I would need a week, or more, for him to return the level of love I had for him.

And ever since VFS, I've always been gone within that week.