The Comings & Goings…

I had this ginger Tom*…

No. Don’t get me wrong. He wasn’t mine. He had a family of his own. But one fine day he chose me.

It was in the heart of lockdown. I was recovering from Covid direct from Wuhan, sick, poorly, trying to get back on my feet, I’d recently lost out on a promotion at work, a man I loved was fucking with my heart & mind, I was queuing up & shopping for my elderly parents, I was isolated and alone, working all the hours because how do you close down an entire university without communicating and one day I lay in the garden at lunchtime, still coughing and wheezing, because remember how beautiful the weather was in Spring 2020, it all seemed unnatural somehow, like the world had gone mad. And it had in my world to some extent. It had pivoted on its axis. I was all at sea.

Then a ginger Tom kitten came under my fence and I immediately fell in love with him. Like I say, he wasn’t mine to have, but I welcomed his affection. And I think he loved me too. I was his human.

Since that day three years ago, the kitten – who officially lives two doors down – ingratiated himself into my life, coming & going and giving me the kind of pleasure I’d only ever dreamed about. He purred relentlessly at the sight and smell of me, he would spend hours rolling about on my bed and my couch, he would lap up the milk of human kindness I poured endlessly for him, eating all the riches I bought for him. He would roll over on his back for his belly to be rubbed, he would scratch his chin against my thigh demanding attention and he settled cozily into the comfortable world I created for him.

Sometimes he would scratch and bite and even that S&M cruelty would feel like home to me.

I was his human.

It was a part time love.

He had other people to please, another family, but when he was with me, I could tell that it was different. We were inseparable for a few hours. He was demanding but it was worth it for the love he gave me, the special attention, waiting on my windowsill when I got home, at the door crying to get in for some warmth and comfort.

I would talk to him for hours.

It soothed him. He was special.

He hated to think I had anyone else in my life, would clamber on my bed when my lover came calling, sit in his bag defiantly and jealously, staring him down and willing him to leave.

They were actually very similar.

Coming and going.

Taking what they wanted. Taking what they needed. Knowing my love was unconditional. I often thought I might find them one day smoking cigarettes in the garden & drinking whisky.

Even my sister loved him. She called him manipulative and then immediately gave him milk. He was a bit like that with women. He followed her around, bit her a bit, and her heart caved in. And she could see what he meant to me, and that melted her too. I once told her I’d never loved anything like I loved that cat. I might have had one too many cocktails at the time, but it was true.

Because aren’t relationships just transactional? And this was a simple, yet beautiful, transaction between two living things. He used to come and go, there were never any false promises, he never outstayed his welcome, he never tried to turn it into something that wasn’t true to make himself feel better about what he was doing. He used to come. And then he used to go. And sometimes, he would be moody. And sometimes, he would be affectionate. But there was never any pretence. He got from me what he wanted, and I got from him what I needed. But he was always there in the background, lounging on my patio, using my window sills to survey the surrounding area, bringing me half-eaten birds, mice, frogs… how lovely. It’s been my most satisfying relationship to date.

And it was inevitable that one day he would go. Because things never stay the same, do they? And that’s only right. That’s the way of the world. We never got to the stage where we started to take each other for granted.

So now he has been spirited away by his family to another life. Before he left he looked sadly at me, knowing both our fate, sensing the loss. I didn’t tell him I loved him. But he knew by the way I caressed the back of his neck for the last time, by the gentle way I pressed my lips against his warm, beautiful head, stroked his back and tucked his tail between his legs.

My ginger Tom.

Been and gone.

And how I miss that face waiting to be let in at the end of the day, waking me up at the crack of dawn to get out and get back to his other life, to chase the birds, to eat food from another’s table, to lap up free milk and fill his ever expanding belly. How he courted me and how I fell so madly in love.

I miss him.

His wanton greed. His blatant disregard. His expectation that I would be on tap forever.

But I know his family love him, care for him, worm him, spray something on his neck to keep the pesky fleas at bay, they have him chipped so they can track him down if ever he goes AWOL. I don’t know if he likes it, but that’s what family does for you to show they care.

And really and truthfully all the ginger Tom wants to do is stare at birds or fish all day, wondering how they might feel and taste as he devours them. Remembering when he was young, ducking under the fence and entering a brand new world where he felt so warm and safe and sated that he kept returning time and again to the promise of cat heaven there.

But when the car trundled off for the last time, he had no idea there would be no more heavenly truth to come home to, and he would end up so far away that he would lose all sense of direction.

And me? I’ve gotten used to loss. I live for the memory of that warm body and how it felt to feed his soul with everything he loved for a while.

Things come & go.

And I’m safe in the knowledge that he is yawning happily somewhere, with someone else stroking his belly & whispering words of love into his whiskers. And he’s the cat that got all the cream.

And now I don’t even have anything to eat me when I die my lonely death one day.

They choose you, you know.

You don’t choose them.

Remember that when you’re judging me.

He came and he went.

What a cool cat.

I’ll always, always remember him.

And I do need to get another cat. One of my own. But I’m just not ready yet.

And maybe he will make his way back to me some day? It would be a long road for him to find his way back, to leave his family, but one day he might pick my scent up on the gentle breeze and he might decide to try.

And I’ll be waiting

*This is not just about a cat.