Kahn

Story of my beloved furry friend who is no longer with me.

            Eating a chocolate chip cookie that just came out of the oven, I gaze out the window in my kitchen.  It’s a huge window, spanning the length from floor to the ceiling.  I have just plain white blinds on it, no curtains.  Usually I leave the blinds open and lifted slightly off the sill so that the cat, Kahn, can sit there and watch the world go by in our back yard.  Birds chitter every now and then and the occasional stray cat wanders by.  I’ve discovered that several like to sleep in my little yellow shed with the white doors that sits outside in the yard.  I can see this shed from my window.  There’s a jagged hole in the bottom of the right panel and that’s where I can see the cats come and go; white with black splotches like someone spilled ink on it, puffy gray with white toes and chin, pale gray striped skinny as a rail.  I wonder where they all come from.  Do they have a home?  Do they belong somewhere?  To someone?  It makes me wonder when it’s below thirty degrees at night, frost settling on the ground, and a bitter wind bellowing through.  I hope they’re safe and sound just like I am sitting in my kitchen at my little pale oak breakfast table.

            Sometimes I wonder if Kahn gets jealous of them as he stares out the window.  What goes through his little mind that causes his ears to prick and eyes to grow wide?  His tail twitching slightly as though his mind is preoccupied.  Does he want to go outside, venture into the unknown world?  I hope not.  Mainly for my selfish reasons, I suppose.  But also for his own sake.  I don’t want him to face the unpleasant things that a cruel world, however unintentional, can toss at you.  Kahn, with his black and gray tiger stripes his Egyptian air, his long, lanky body and twitching tail, who gazes at me with large, luminous golden-green eyes.  Cocking his head slightly, he appears to absorb every word I utter throughout the mindless day.  Chattering to him as though he were human and could understand.  But maybe he does understand.  Who knows?  He definitely knows when I say no for something he shouldn’t be doing (like climbing on kitchen counters) or when I tell him he’s a good boy just because I love him. 

            Is it an odd thing to love him?  He’s not human in the same sense that I am, or at least I think not.  Should I be able to say that I love him?  Express an essential human emotion to a cat?  Is it possible?  I think it is.  I think it is when he rubs against my leg, letting slip a slight meow.  Just enough to get my attention.  I think it is when he stretches his length to my hips from the floor so that he can have his back scratched.  I think it is possible when he curls beside my legs at night while I’m sleeping, so that he feels safe and comforted as he drifts off to “cat-land.”  Yes, I think it is possible to love a cat the same way you can love a human.  Some would say this isn’t normal or possible.  But I believe it can be so.  Cats are human in a sense.  People say they’re dumb, they smell, and so on.  But I think cats are smarter than we give them credit for.  They know.  They always know even when we don’t, but think we do. 

            I watch him sleep on my butcher-block table that used to belong to my husband’s Poppy.  It’s one of his favorite places to sleep.  Curled up in a little gray ball, oblivious to the world except for the ever listening ears that turn, like a satellite dish on the slightest sounds.  He knows and he listens.  He listens for the sound of a bag crumpling, hoping it’s a treat.  He listens for the sounds of footsteps on the stairs knowing its time for bed or food.  He listens for the door, knowing when “dad” will come walking in from a hard day’s work.  He listens and he knows.  He knows that his time here is short.  That soon, he will go back to where he came from.  Back to his old home of cats galore.  It’s a sad thought, one that breaks my heart, but I know it’s for the best.  Unfortunately, I think this is one of the times he doesn’t know and won’t know.  He won’t understand.  He’ll just see a friend who is betraying him, who is sending him back to his version of hell.   When in reality, at least in my perception, I have no choice.  I am forbidden to have him, to call him my own, to say he belongs to me.  It must not have been the right time.  I have just been given this little blip in time, this little moment to cherish.  A chance to savor the warmth of his little body curled in my lap while I read in a rocking chair.  The chance to be calmed by his gentle purr released by my caress.  The chance to feel peace when alone through the day, even if it is only for a short time.  To have a companion who will listen and listen and know, even though they cannot respond verbally in my way. 

            It’s a hard thing to let him go, to let him be where he must be.  But I have no choice.  I sit here and think, am I that bad of a person?  But, no, I mustn’t allow that.  Because I know what’s best, even if he doesn’t, despite the fact he listens and knows.