In which there is joy, mixed with sorrow.
Almost fifteen years ago now, my grandmother and I got into her little silver car and drove down to some town in the South Bay, and we came home with a blue-faced kitten that had full and unquestioned ownership of my entire life before we even got her back out to the car. I knew her name before I ever met her. She sprawled in my lap the whole way home, cleaning herself and looking up at me with slit-eyed self-assurance, because she knew damn well and good that I was her property, to do with as she wished. And it stayed that way for almost a decade and a half, and I never regretted a moment of it, and when my grandmother died I sobbed into Leela's fur, and when Leela died I sobbed by myself, and I miss them both so much. I love language, and usually, language listens to what I ask it to do, but this is one thing I just can't get language to express properly. I had a cat. I loved her. My cat died. I still love her.
Words don't say enough.
Friday, February 4th, my friends Chris and Julie and I got into a little white car and drove down to some town in the South Bay, and we picked up a blue-faced kitten that has full and unquestioned ownership of my entire life, providing she doesn't mind sharing sometimes with a big green-eyed meatloaf named Nyssa. I didn't know her name before we met, but by the time I went to bring her home, I knew that she was Lilly, taking a syllable from Leela, and finally letting Ayla -- my first Siamese -- go. She has a short, stubby tail, and the sweetest little pointy blue-eyed face, and everything she does is cute, but someday, she'll grow into her dignity and herself, and then she'll be elegant, because that's what Siamese do. She chases her feather toy, and she manages leaps that boggle the mind, even though I remember the Siamese before her; somehow, it's easy to forget, as cats get old, just how young they used to be.
I love her. She was born when Leela died, and she licks my fingers and purrs like a mad thing, and she barely makes a sound otherwise, and I love her. She steals my plush Stitch doll and drags him around the room to protect her, and she pounces my face and sleeps on my throat, and I love her. I loved her before I ever took her home. And even so...
As we were riding home, with Lilly curled in my lap and warily watching the world go by outside the car, I sat there and I cried and I cried, because I could look at my lap and see a different pair of jeans in a different car, with a different scrap of blue and cream languidly washing her feet and just accepting that no matter where I took her, it would be where she wanted to be. That was a different day, and I know that, but I miss my cat, who was always that blue and white kitten, no matter how old she got, how dignified, how beautiful.
Lilly is going to be a wonderful cat. She shows all the signs of it already, and her short tail means that while I may project my fierce love of Siamese onto her, I won't mistake her for Leela; her reactions won't be Leela's, her personality won't be, and that's all right. I love her. I love Leela.
I still miss my kitty.
Words don't say enough.
Friday, February 4th, my friends Chris and Julie and I got into a little white car and drove down to some town in the South Bay, and we picked up a blue-faced kitten that has full and unquestioned ownership of my entire life, providing she doesn't mind sharing sometimes with a big green-eyed meatloaf named Nyssa. I didn't know her name before we met, but by the time I went to bring her home, I knew that she was Lilly, taking a syllable from Leela, and finally letting Ayla -- my first Siamese -- go. She has a short, stubby tail, and the sweetest little pointy blue-eyed face, and everything she does is cute, but someday, she'll grow into her dignity and herself, and then she'll be elegant, because that's what Siamese do. She chases her feather toy, and she manages leaps that boggle the mind, even though I remember the Siamese before her; somehow, it's easy to forget, as cats get old, just how young they used to be.
I love her. She was born when Leela died, and she licks my fingers and purrs like a mad thing, and she barely makes a sound otherwise, and I love her. She steals my plush Stitch doll and drags him around the room to protect her, and she pounces my face and sleeps on my throat, and I love her. I loved her before I ever took her home. And even so...
As we were riding home, with Lilly curled in my lap and warily watching the world go by outside the car, I sat there and I cried and I cried, because I could look at my lap and see a different pair of jeans in a different car, with a different scrap of blue and cream languidly washing her feet and just accepting that no matter where I took her, it would be where she wanted to be. That was a different day, and I know that, but I miss my cat, who was always that blue and white kitten, no matter how old she got, how dignified, how beautiful.
Lilly is going to be a wonderful cat. She shows all the signs of it already, and her short tail means that while I may project my fierce love of Siamese onto her, I won't mistake her for Leela; her reactions won't be Leela's, her personality won't be, and that's all right. I love her. I love Leela.
I still miss my kitty.