Old, Furry Souls
Public,
meet Ozzy. This is him when
he was about a year old. The
collar was new, the hubby’s
idea, and remained on him a
total of 1 minute and 42
seconds before he finagled
himself out of it. He was SO
not happy about someone
treating him like a common cat
and trying to lay that
ownership shmeil on him. He
didn’t talk to me for three
days after that.
From the moment I looked into
those colorless eyes (well,
they‘re a sea mist sort of
green, but the hue is SO light
that they appear almost
entirely colorless sometimes),
I knew Ozzy was meant for me.
When I say that, I don’t mean
that he was just so cute and
furry that I had to have him.
No, I mean, I knew without a
doubt, he was meant to be in
my life. I knew he was an old
soul, because in his eyes, I
saw unending depths of wisdom
and ageless knowledge. But he
wasn’t just any old soul; he
was MY old soul, my life
guide, whom I’ve known for
many, many lifetimes before
this one.
It was a hellacious April day
in ‘99 when Ozzy found me,
during a visit to a life
friend of mine---a friend that
seems to be an important part
of my life and one that I will
talk about in my next column.
It was awesomely windy out,
rainy, and all day, we had had
lightning and thunder off and
on. I love it when the
weather is like that. It’s
like watching Mother Nature
during playtime, lol. Anyway,
I walked out of her house to
leave, and there he was
waiting for me: tiny, wet,
cold, angry, and up in the
branches of one of my friend’s
trees, meowing pitifully at
me.
My friend, being taller than
me, was able to just reach him
on her ladder, and brought him
down, hissing and pitching a
fit. We took him inside and
she handed him to me while she
went to fetch a towel to dry
him off with. I turned him
around so I could get a good
look at him, and he looked
right into my eyes, and my
first reaction was one of
recognition and relief, and I
remember saying “THERE you
are!!” I have no better way to
describe how I felt at that
moment than to say it was like
finding something that you had
never even known was missing,
or even existed, but once you
found it, you recognized it as
yours at once, and that it HAD
been missing…gosh, I hope that
makes sense to at least some
of you, lol.
Anyway, we dried him off,
warmed him up, I told my
friend his name was Ozzy, he
was mine, and I took him
home. That night, he lay on
my chest, purring as loud as
an outboard motor, and we just
looked at each other. Our
mental conversation that night
went something along the lines
of this:
Me: “Where have you been?
I’ve been waiting. You’re
late this time, you know.”
Him: “I was here before; you
just weren’t paying
attention. So, I had to go
all corporeal on your ass this
time…God, I hate the physical
world…How long am I going to
be stuck in this fur coat?”
Me: “I dunno. Barring any
problems, most normal, healthy
cats live anywhere between
12-20 years, I think.”
Him: “Oh, that’s just
lovely! 12-20 years of
licking my own butt, coughing
up fur balls, and chasing
after small rodents *just* so
I could help you out and keep
an eye on you…the things I do
for you…”
Me: “I know. Glad you’re
back anyway.”
Him: “Ditto, kid.”
Ozzy had been in our lives for
only 5 months when I found out
I was pregnant with my
daughter. They say pets know
when a woman’s pregnant,
because they can hear when the
fetus’ heart starts beating.
I don’t know about that, but I
do know Ozzy knew I was
pregnant, because he became
very protective and concerned
for me. He would follow me
around almost all day long,
and every night, he would
sleep in front of my bed.
One particular issue he seemed
to have when I was pregnant,
was me bathing. He would NOT
let me be around water by
myself. Anytime I took a
shower or bath, he HAD to be
in the bathroom too, or he
would literally claw the door
trying to get inside. If I
was taking a bath, he would
climb up and sit on the rim of
the tub, watching me like a
hawk; if I was in the shower,
he would get into the shower
with me, wait until I turned
off the water, and then jump
out. He really hated when I
took a shower, because it
meant he would get wet, and
then have to clean all that
fur, and he hated the extra
grooming it caused. Anyway,
after I had my daughter,
Kaelan, he stopped. To this
day, I don’t know why he had a
problem with me being pregnant
and around water, but he did.
Besides connecting on an
unspoken level, we also talk
to each other out loud to some
degree.
The first time I realized he
could understand what I said
to him out loud, he was in my
room, bugging me to play with
him. But I was busy going
through some old papers, and
in jest, I told him, “Why
don’t you go play with
Joseph? He’s in the living
room watching cartoons.” Lo
and behold, after throwing a
displeased look my way, he
jumped off the bed, went into
the living room, plopped down
right next to Joe, and
proceeded to rub his head
against his leg to get his
attention.
He’s woke up the kids before
when I’ve asked them, looked
for missing things when I’ve
asked, stuff like that. And,
like any normal person,
sometimes he’ll do things when
I ask, and sometimes he
won’t. If he’s in a pissy
mood or tired, he generally
won’t. But, on the average,
he’s pretty good about doing
what I ask.
When I need to convey a
particular feeling to him,
such as “I’m feeling scared, I
need you”, I’ll think it, more
so than say it out loud. It
seems that if it’s a feeling,
he understands it, and reacts
to it quicker, if I think it
instead of say it.
Other people take their dogs
for walks in the evenings.
Not me. I go for a walk, and
Ozzy unerringly tags along,
every time. No leashes or
collars, and he never walks
right beside me; rather, he
follows behind me, usually
keeping a distance of about 10
feet. I’ve noticed that if he
ever has a particular issue
about where we’re going, he’ll
let me know. He’ll stop and
meow very loudly, until I turn
around or change directions.
And any time I stop moving (to
tie my shoe, for example), he
will come up to me, circling
around me, and rubbing against
my legs until I start moving
again.
You know, I’ve got pets.
I have a Boxer named Chessie,
who is one of the few dogs
I’ve ever really, really
liked. I always liked basset
hounds, and thought my first
dog would be one. Instead, I
was stunned to find myself
head over heels in love with
this Boxer pup, who was the
runt of the litter. As per
her breed, she is wicked
strong, with muscles bulging
here and there, and she is a
great watchdog. She is also
the clumsiest, sweetest, and
happiest dog I’ve ever met,
and I adore her for all those
qualities.
Also, my sister-in-law
recently dumped a new kitten
off on us in the guise of a
birthday present for my
daughter. Kaelan promptly
named her “Jinkies”, after
Velma’s catch phrase on
“Scooby Doo”, which she
watches almost religiously on
Cartoon Network. I, however,
call her simply “Jinx”. She’s
cute, but likes to scrap,
scratch, and bite, so not the
best cat for kids. She loves
it outside, and has no use for
being indoors anymore.
See, I have pets, and that’s
what they are---pets.
But, I’ve never been able to
relegate Ozzy to being simply
“a pet”. When I’m feeling in
a bad mood, or he’s being a
pain in the butt, I might call
him “cat”, but it’s meant more
as an insult than a fact.
Ozzy cannot simply be labeled
as a pet, cat, companion, or
animal. Ozzy is…something
else… something ancient,
something mystic, something
that has been with me since
the beginning of, well, me.
I‘m pretty certain that he‘s
not always a cat, but the eyes
are always the same---the same
knowing looks, the same
instant recognition. An old
soul, that’s what he is. And
he’s my old soul, meant for
me, for always.
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