I’m sitting on my bed working and my old cat is lying next to me, pushing her head against me and purring. Every so often, I take my hands off the keyboard and rub her head hard, kneading her ears, and her purring intensifies and her big paws reach out to grasp my hands and hold them there.
I’ve had my old cat since she was a kitten: fourteen years to be precise. She was a little scrap of a thing with big round eyes and a face like a little bear. Her go-to move was the silent miao. Her face would miao, her mouth would open, but no sound would come out. She still does that. It’s her way of saying, “Hello, I am here.”
Her whiskers are turning silver now and she doesn’t do much but lie around. She tolerates the dogs because she knows she is top of the tree. She sheds too much, she dribbles like a tap, but she needs me more than ever because she is old.
Lying here, stroking her soft, light head makes me feel as if the sun is shining on me gently. Everyone should have an old cat. It’s a beautiful thing.