My cat is losing too much weight. He’s lost more than a pound in one week and the doctors are worried and talking about biopsies and potential results and how cats do with chemotherapy. I learned how to give him injections today. I just pull his skin up from his neck and plunge the needle in.
I never knew when I got that tiny kitten, curled up in that little cardboard box, that he would be one of the only constants who would see me through my marriage crumbling apart, most of my family slipping away, the heavy journeys across states, the rebuilding of my life (and again, and again). But here he is. He climbs into my lap and he looks up at me and all he wants is love.
I know there is so much of my life to be grateful for, and I do and I have joy and I know better than to think I’m anything but truly blessed. But sometimes I’m still sad.
I was passing through another airport on way onto another plane the other day and I picked up a Cosmo in an attempt at light and funny reading. Cosmo told me that nothing is so unattractive as insecurity. But here’s the thing. I’m not insecure. I don’t suffer from a lack of confidence. I don’t think I’m undeserving of love. In truth, I’m really pretty arrogant. Because I do think I’m deserving of someone who loves me and for my cat not to die and I’m rather angry at the world that I can’t get what I so clearly am entitled to.
Haven’t I spent too many years giving to other people? Aren’t I pretty enough and smart enough and funny enough and good enough in bed and imaginative and creative and spontaneous and fucking whimsical and interesting? As Avril would say, I’m damn precious, a mother fucking princess, etc.
And yet, all I can do for my cat is learn how to give him injections and scratch his ears and give him love.