To the cat who walks alone.

Those liquid eyes that seem to pierce me to the depths of my soul.  They haunt me at breakfast, brunch, lunch, snack time, dinner, nightcap, and potty break at five next morning.  Doctors’ orders are to feed her whenever she wishes, to build her muscle mass back to wherever it ought to be but is not.  She’s quite demanding, you know, in a silent persevering way… those endless stares, and not a single mew from her lips… just those haunting eyes, wherever I am, staring at me until I give in and plunk a few spoonful’s of chicken bits into her dish.  When contented as her bowl is licked clean, she drifts into the woodwork never to be seen again until she gets the urge to seek me out once more and repeat.

Did I tell you she’s my favorite… yes, I think she’s still my favorite even though she behaves rather badly at times with a dose of indifferent these days.  She’ll touch base at bedtime for a few strokes under her chin, and if I’m lucky she’ll sprawl out by my side, if unlucky, she just bunch up at my feet so I can’t move them even an inch.  Of course, at some point in time she moves like a phantom into her dark place of hiding until five in the morning when on my potty break she lets go a rush of demanding meows signaling it’s snack time before breakfast.

It's her birthday this month.  I forgot it… so wrapped up in my own self, it never occurred that she even had a birthday any time this year.  I suppose she’s over the hill, sixty in human years – when everything about oneself begins to crust with rust.  I’ve already been there.  She has my undying empathy as she continues forward in her life.  She will always have the best I’m able to offer.  She will ask for nothing more than that.  I love her, and whatever she chooses to give back, I'll always call it love and leave it at that. 

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