Over the last three months of our time in a real house, Moby has become a true Lap Cat. And, although this is lovely and we are happy to have his overt affection and appreciation, it almost seems like a different cat. I have to keep him from jumping up on me whenever, or at least not EVERY time, I sit in the Music Room. He demands our attention and physical presence much more than ever before. I grow to ache, trying not to move once he has settled on me, but inevitably I must, or grow stiff and sore. Perhaps this has to do with his age, or that he no longer feels so cramped and in need of space. But he has completely made the transition from an apartment cat into a House Cat. His love is overt and present, without the old restraints. We genuinely thought he would go through this phase of needing reassurance, then it would wane. Instead, he seems more fond of us now than ever, no sign of lessening. I clipped his hind claws today, and although he growled opprobrium, he stayed where he was, and once I was done, settled in beside me again. Our love has deepened, as with the long, happily, married. Trust runs deep. We know each other, and like each other right down, to the bone.
Maybe I would not feel such a deficit from the genetic kin, save that I have experienced this real love. My cat loves me for who I am more than they ever have, ever will, ever could. D loves me more than that.
I pour back the love, only wanting to return more, a boundless desire to balance. An endless, mutual, debt. The House is part of that.
How'd I get so lucky? (I say this a lot.)
Labels: love story