I Am Not a Hat!

My Mom calls me a “healer” because I make people feel better.  When I’m around, they focus on my cuteness and forget their worries for a little while. And they feel loved.  One time a nice Chinese woman responded to me in the most curious way.  She petted me then rubbed her head with the same hand.  Petted me then rubbed her neck with the same hand.  She kept repeating the actions. Pet.  Rub.  Pet. Rub.  It’s like she was massaging a lotion or oil (“Essence of Shamzi”) in to her skin.  All the time she murmured to me in Cantonese, which is not one of the many languages that I speak.  I couldn’t understand what she was saying or doing, but I enjoyed her and remained mellow.  That is, until she suddenly lifted me and tried to put me on her head like I was a hat.  I couldn’t help it; I shrieked.  She dropped me.  She became upset and said something in Cantonese to one of the nurses, who translated for me and my Mom.  “He doesn’t like me!” she wailed.  My Mom reassured her, “No, no, of course he likes you.  You probably squeezed him in a sensitive area.” 

After some more discussion and translation, we realized that the nice woman thought I was an actual healer, you know, the lay-hands-on-me-and-make-me-walk-again kind of healer.  She was trying to put me in contact with her head and neck, where she felt pain.  When my Mom explained that I wasn’t that kind of healer (I’m good, but not that good), the nice woman quietly replied “Oh? But my head and my neck feel better now.”  Then she went back to petting me, then rubbing her head and neck after petting me.   

But she didn’t try to wear me like a hat anymore.  

I wish I really could heal people just by touching them.  All I can do is look deeply into their eyes, touch them gently with my paw, and let them know that I love them. 

The Hardest Thing

My sister, Pishy the Cat, passed away the day before yesterday. My Mom and I are very, very sad.  We miss her very much.  We loved her so much.  So very, very much.  I don’t really know how we are going to go on with life.  Life in our home will never be the same again.  We will never be the same.  Mostly, we feel empty without her presence.   Her Meow, Meow, Meow-ing as she would cheerfully run to the door to greet my Mom home every day.  Her friendly “rrroooo!” sound she would make as she'd look straight into Mom’s eyes just before jumping onto her lap.  Her cute white furry belly that she'd expose when she would run out ahead of Mom, stretch out on the floor, and expect a good old-fashioned tummy rub.  How we both loved to take naps in the warm comforting sunshine.  And the way she would just sit still and look at me like I was crazy, every time I would race up to her, get down on my front paws, wag my tail, and hope she would  play with me.  I will miss hearing Mom say, every day, “Shamzi she STILL doesn’t want to play with you!”

Life now feels empty.  What will Mom and I do without her?

We are very sad now.  But don’t get me wrong.  We are very grateful, even though we are so sad.  It is just that “sad” is pretty big right now.  My Mom says that maybe, after enough time has passed for our broken hearts to heal, we might begin to feel less sad and empty.  And more happy and full.  Someday, we will be able to feel only grateful for our dear Pishy's life and for the blessing of getting to live our lives together with her for all these wonderful years. Someday, we will be able to focus only on the infinite every-day moments of simple joy and happiness that we shared together.   And someday we will be elated that we carry Pishy in our hearts all the time, everywhere we go, everything we do.  

My Mom read a poem by Mary Oliver to me last night, called “In Blackwater Woods,” and the part that sticks with me is this:

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it against your bones

knowing your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.

  

That third thing is the hardest thing.            I love you so very much, Pishy.