It took time and patience. Hours of quiet waiting until he crept out from his hiding places when hunger, curiosity and playfulness got the better of him. He would join his brother in leaping around the furniture, making inquisitive darts past us humans trying to make up their minds - friend or foe? His brother trusted first and then slowly, as his sense of safety grew, he began to inch closer. I learned not to reach out when he approached as his flight reflex would kick in and he would be gone - hours of building trust undone. Until one day, trembling and tentative, he crept onto my lap, circled around a few times and then hunkered down. I held my breath and slowly let it out as the quiet warm weight of him settled against me.
I can't really explain the connection. I knew almost instinctively he wasn't okay when he slipped in from the garden one evening and onto the chair in the kitchen where I was making dinner. Days of worry followed and I felt his suffering in my bones. He would have been in a lot of pain, the vet said, after they diagnosed an intussuception of his bowel that required major surgery. In all the prodding and poking and medical interventions to save his life over the course of that week, he never made a sound but for a deep purring as I whispered to him over and over that he was safe, he was safe.
He was snow falling softly. A quiet presence blanketing a winter landscape. The only sound he ever really made was a little chirrup in unexpected moments when he came across me suddenly or I reached out to stroke him when he tip-toed up with his little arched-back. It was a sweet sound, like a little bubble of joy. At night, nestled beside me, I would feel a little paw reach out gently to touch my arm, my face - a reassurance for both of us. I didn't know how much I needed him. Seeing him and his brother together gave me a feeling of wholeness and completeness that healed a part of me I didn't know was broken. Katsu himself eased a loneliness that had been gnawing at me for years.
This missing - it's familiar - I've been here before. I will settle into again even though I don't want it. Like a timid, distrustful cat, I will circle it awhile before finally giving in. But this time, I will keep the door of my heart unlocked to honour a little "rare blue-eyed" ginger kitten who wasn't supposed to make it but did long enough to nudge it open.
