Paw Prints on my Heart

 

I don't even remember when my love affair with cats began.

Hello Kitty is certainly a source. But how did swooning over the cat with no mouth transition into an indescribable love for the real deal of sleek, coolness, and independence - I am unsure.

I remember making a declaration "I love all cats! - except Garfield" I could never resist spending time with cats. You have a cat? Can I come visit? If I come across a stray, I would pause even if it is just to say "hello there!" Eventually, it led to volunteering for Cat Welfare Society, buying of cat calendars, regular feeding of community cats, seeking out cat cafes and even the cat village of Houtong. Everyone knew me to be the cat person who, ironically, didn't have a cat. Until I moved to Uruguay.

Oscar was first. He was so shy initially, always keeping his distance, but I had no doubt we were meant to be. I loved watching him as he kneads his front paws, while eating from his bowl or before settling into his favorite spot for a nap. When he first jumped on my lap, the gentle press of his paws seemed to say "I am learning to trust you." 

When we lost Oscar, it felt like someone had punched a hole through my heart. The untouched food bowl, the empty corners where he used to nap - everything felt wrong. I wasn't ready to say goodbye, not when we had barely begun our journey together.

Then Chinook came into my life. Her constant purring was like a healing balm to make all things right again. She purred so much, so loudly - we named her after the just as deafening helicopter. We didn't know then that her sweet purring might have been trying to tell us something. That perhaps her body was already fighting battles we couldn't see.

Losing two cats within six months... I never imagined such heartbreak when I dreamed of being a cat mom. How could something I wanted for so long bring such profound pain? I thought maybe this was the universe's way of telling me I wasn't meant to have cats after all. At all.

Funnily enough, it was on the hubby's insistence that brought them back into our lives. He wanted a mouse catcher. So I responded to a giver's posting of kittens for adoption, mistakenly assuming there was only one due to the language barrier. Actually there was a litter of 7 to choose from! 

I had often wondered what kind of cat I would choose to be my own and just as I was considering how I would select 2 out of the litter of 7, I was relieved of that choice. I had arrived at the giver's home and we spoke at her gate. As the kittens were all running amok she had to go search for them and the first two she brought out became mine. So none of my cats were actually chosen by me - they chose me, or perhaps fate chose them for me.

This year taught me that love and loss are two sides of the same coin. Oscar showed me how beautiful it is when trust builds slowly. Chinook taught me to cherish every purr, every moment. And now these kittens are teaching me that it's okay to open my heart again.

I miss Oscar's gentle paw kneading. I miss Chinook's powerful purrs. But their brief presence in my life made me a better cat mom, and for that, I'll always be grateful. As I watch Arturo and Estrella play, I like to believe that somewhere, Oscar and Chinook are watching too, purring their approval of these little ones who are helping to heal my heart.

Goodbye Oscar..

We buried Oscar this morning.

He had been missing for days. Which was not unusual. He had been gone for a day or two before. The food we had put out was still disappearing, even though some days it was totally untouched. 

It was almost like when we first met him. He was super shy and ran away at the sight or sound of us. It took weeks before hubby got close enough to stroke him. Then pretty soon he couldn't get enough of our caresses.

I remember the first time he jumped on my lap; the one time he let my face come so close to his that we nose bumped; the last time he hung out with me as I sat in the front yard. He was such a source of joy and comfort.

By the fifth day, I got sufficiently concerned that I went out of our compound to search for him, knowing full well that the chances of finding him that way were slim. I even looked in drains along the road.

Hubby found him. A black mess among trash, ravaged by maggots. He must had passed the first day he went missing. Seeing the pendant I put on him just a month ago confirmed it's him.

Strangely I did not cry. About 5 years ago, I was quite emotional when I had to say goodbye to a community cat which I fed a couple times a week. Granted I had been feeding Tux for about a year while we only really knew Oscar for 3 months.

Perhaps it is age or maturity but it was a quiet acceptance as hubby and I stood where he decided would be his final resting place. Away from us but not that far off where we would never find him? 

Perhaps as the number of days he went missing increased, we had already started accepting that the chances of him reappearing alive were decreasing. There really was not much that we could do but hope for his return.

So it was with composure and resolute that we did what was necessary to move his body and bury him. I got the necessary equipment and hubby transported him to a secluded corner and started digging.

It was difficult to look at Oscar's body. He had such soft and smooth fur that was .. no more. He had been so graceful and light on his paws but it looked nothing more than dead weight. He had serenaded me with his gentle purring and it was so silent.

Perhaps the tears will come after all.

The dissectologist's final piece

I have always enjoyed assembling jigsaw puzzles. I especially love puzzles with cats on them. I had so many completed ones, both framed and unframed, lying around that I had a hard time deciding what to do with them when I was packing for my move into my own apartment. With a desire to lead a more minimalist lifestyle, I did not buy any more puzzles and it has been 4 years since I assembled one.

During the Circuit Breaker and all the extra time social distancing at home, my hands (and mind) began to itch for a puzzle. In this climate of uncertainty, the prospect of a clear solution just waiting to be discovered is immensely alluring. Like cross-stitching and painting-by-numbers, it is also a healthier activity compared to staring at screens. I was so sorely tempted to get this particular one! 

Recently, I chanced upon a mini jigsaw puzzle giveaway on a blessing group and jumped on it! I could and would certainly give it away upon completion and pay it forward. I was also excited about the fact that this was a mini version such that the 1000 pieces will only reach A3 size. Talk about saving space, and I just have a thing for tiny, miniature stuff.

So the dissectologist, yours truly, got to work. I was really looking forward to the entire process from completing the frame to putting that final piece in its place, and that ultimate sense of accomplishment. In fact, I started to wonder which or where might my final piece be and muse about if there could be a significance to that final piece.. 🤔

My puzzle assembling skills are a little rusty that although I found the frame fairly quickly, my progress soon halted as I was getting distracted by pieces all over the place unsorted by colours. It was not the gratifying experience I was expecting. But herein lies the beauty of doing a puzzle, I get to decide when I stop for the day (unlike daily quests on my Two Dot game which leaves me no choice! 😂)

The following day I started by sorting the colours (which should had been the first thing to do after finding the frame!) and I did not want to stop. There is some real satisfaction in being able to recognise exactly where a particular piece goes, or placing a piece correctly by gut feeling. I was on a roll, grinning like an idiot with every piece that found its rightful place.

Before long, I could see that the final piece would probably be a green piece of a grass patch without any distinctive markings, not a blue piece of the water waves that looked indistinguishable from one to the other. So... green instead of blue huh.....

Except, my final piece was nowhere to be found. 

It was neither green nor blue or any colour because as I was searching frantically for the missing piece, I already forgotten which was the second last piece I put in place. I totally missed out on that thrill of the moment of epiphany when the whole picture reveals itself with the placement of the final piece.

The crazy thing is I was okay with it. If it had happened when I was younger, I would have cursed and  swore at the indignation, at the wasted time and effort to arrive at imperfection. But not today. 

Age does crazy things to you. Really had enjoyed the journey rather than focusing on the destination. 

And perhaps that was exactly the significance of this dissectologist's final piece.