Flash is not a
pet and not just a cat. He’s a person, and he’s my son.
As with many parents, we
adopted because we wanted a family that we couldn’t make from scratch, and
someone out there needed one.
That first night was a
marathon of tense uncertainty. Lots of pacing, crying, and questioning if it
was a good fit.
A year later, we’re all
resting easy. He recognizes that, while we don’t look like him, we are his
tribe (though his dad also wears black all the time). Through us, he’s learned
that the world is loving, life is beautiful, and people are cats too.
Like any adolescent boy,
he plays ball, fights with his tortoiseshell sister, and has assigned chores,
which in his case is to patrol all corners and crevices for any trespassing
flies or spider crickets unaware of the new sheriff in town. We keep count of
his apprehensions on a chalkboard in the kitchen. He’s up to twelve this week.
Now Flash isn't going to
university or continuing anyone's family name, but nurturing that sleekishly
effervescent lifeforce to its full cuckoo-bananas potential is legacy enough
for us.
And who knows: in a
karmic future life, maybe he shepherds us to safety, takes
care of the litter boxes, and celebrates our fleeting-but-brilliant
starlight.
: - |
>
