Remembering
At one point, I had no cats. Now I have three. A mother showed up pregnant. She had four kittens. I gave away two of the kittens. Another straggler appeared, a little black cat. That was four at home. Eventually, one of the remaining kittens died, and now I’m down to three. I gained half a cat recently when a stranger showed up to eat and run, then come back to hang out at night.
I’m convinced that the mother who started all this was a housecat once upon a time. Momma cat. She doesn’t like me to come up to her and touch her, but the minute I sit in a chair on the porch she’s all affection. She’ll rub my leg, let me scratch her head, and then she’ll hop up on my lap, purring like a little motorboat. As she sits there, letting me love on her, I wonder if she’s remembering the life she had, the love she lost. Does she remember the people? Their touch, their voices.
I don’t see any reason why a cat couldn’t have memories of love. It seems a natural part of life. I’m fairly certain she remembers her mother’s touch, and I remember my mother even though she passed almost 60 years ago. It’s nice to have memories of love, and it’s nice to pass them on and give them to other people or animals. To be the sort of person where people smile when they see you coming and want to sit beside you, or sit in your lap if they’re a cat.