Cats and Wives
My cat loves me but swipes with razor claws so people say I should give him away because he sometimes hooks one in me. It's scary, granted, and painful to watch a thin line of red open up along my arm or leg. You rat for a cat! Once again you've done your master harm. But those same people who say give him away don't see him rubbing my shins at 4 a.m. when my feet hit the floor and here comes Buddy Boy with steady tread and so happy to see me again! Then he sits on my chest purring and splays two white paws with ten sharp claws that very softly begin kneading me, each claw a pinprick of a veiled and potential threat hinting at a deep gash and blood flowing red. Instead, I delight in watching him purring and loving and kneading me. And sure, that rascal melts my butter when he looks me in the eyes and says: "You trust me not to rip your heart out, don't you?" You bet your horse, and your ass, that I, thinking of consequences, gulp and say yes! Now, wise men say truth hurts but it's love that sets you free. I ponder this as my cat sits idly on me, loving and kneading me, purring and smiting me just as you sit idly on my heart, purring and smiting me, loving and needing me, pinpricking me with your claws, saying: "You trust me not to rip your heart out, don't you? And again -- I gulp and say yes! Now, Eckhart Tolle says he's known a few Zen masters -- all of them cats. Interesting. I think my little boy, whom I found as a kitten trembling and starving under a car, isn't into Zen. I think he favors paws, claws and mice -- not meditation. And you my dear? You're a woman. An enigma. A complete mystery. I know little about cats. Even less about women.