There were many things, at first, that I genuinely found annoying about you – your fur everywhere, your 3am wails, your 5am door scratches, your sneaking around Lottie’s food and rebelliously snatching it even when you knew it’d make you sick, your extended parades on the kitchen counter, your head bumps against my limbs to ensure I knew you wanted to be held, your obnoxious pounces, your sheer audacity as you jumped onto my client calls, acting as if you were in need of my attention – which let’s be honest, you always thought you were in need of attention. I didn’t appreciate being woken up by you and I would’ve preferred to not have my dishes coated by the fur of you. So naturally, I kept you at distance, prioritizing my good night’s sleep and clothes-fur-free. You were “funny” and “clingy” but not my cup of tea. I regularly called you needy and annoying, convincing others and myself that there was no affection at play. Or so I kept humming.
Without intending to or having any say in the matter, you were there through my biggest losses. You’ve witnessed me grieve death, lose my family, go through heartbreaks, not have a home, pull away from my job, and eventually, struggle to find hope. You saw me get triggered, burn out and break down. You were there on the nights I was crippled by fear and the mornings I did not want to awake and face another day of racing thoughts and tears. There. You didn’t do anything out of the ordinary – you just continued to be the cat that you were. And somehow, simply in just being, your presence brought me comfort and solace amidst despair.
Maybe it was the fact that you kept me company in my most agonizing seasons, or simply over time, your bubble tea scent and prickly licks had become a little more endearing – but one way or another, your presence grew on me. I started to have appreciation for, and perhaps even take delight in, your neediness. In a curious way, your clinginess swung wide the main doors and played the tune of my most favourite melody – hospitality. With your loud wails and obnoxious floor blops, you welcomed strangers, guests, visitors, friends, and passerbys into your castle and made them feel right at home. Your need for affection – an icebreaker in a difficult conversation, your counter parades – an invitation to a game of spray bottle, your lap climbs – a cause to pay attention to the present moment, your head-poking – a reason to take a break from a hectic schedule, your attitude – a cause for an eye roll and a chuckle, and your warmth – a demand for nothing less in return.
Twelve weeks ago, you climbed into my lap for the very last time. Your frail body hiding from the world – head down, limbs weak, shaky and afraid – unlike anything I’ve known you to be. As tears rolled down my cheeks onto your feeble frame, I knew it took every ounce of strength for you to climb into my lap for the very last time, but you did so anyway. You were unabashedly yourself until your last breath – needy, in request of love and affection.
When I’m asked about how I learned to accept my own needs and make requests for displays of affection, I point to a picture of you and admit that it’s what a clingy monster has taught me. And when people respond with, “aw, you like cats” I say, “no, I really don’t”. I love Lottie and Arthur, who happen to be cats – the best cats I’ll ever know.