Male Housecat

I woke again—several times—late last night and found one of my male housecats sleeping there against my pillow. This cat seems drawn to me only while I am sleeping. During the day, the cat typically shies away when I reach out to pat his head, as if we were magnets of similar poles that automatically repel. The cat developed the habit of sharing my pillow only a few days ago. I am not sure why. Now, I have similarly attained the habit of reaching out each time I wake in the darkness to see if I can feel the warm poultice that is this slumbering cat. Soft, he. Warm, he. And soon purring.

We are alive and vital, and have somehow collected together in the darkness.

In an email to a friend I suggested that this cat might by watching my dreams. Maybe that is the attraction to me late in the night. Since I no longer remember my dreams, I wonder if the cat is not only watching, but stealing by best dreams—the ones where fish in ponds kiss my toes, the dreams where I am young again. By the time I wake each morning, the male cat is gone and I recall, from the whole night though, nothing except reaching out for those few brief moments when I came awake.

All of us, man and beast, are frozen when asleep. Locked fast inside our own bodies, we pivot along against the smear of stars, propelled by forces far beyond our control. The days, though, belong to us. That much we own. In the full light, we choose our colors and our naming songs. With cats, as with people, as with all stardust infinity, we must find purpose to make both the easy and the difficult connections during that time. First, love. Next, flowerboxes, shiny cars, exotic coffee, and chasing new mice below ancient pine trees.

I am starting small. I begin with this single housecat. I begin with small moments deep in the night. Sooner or later, out there in the sunlight, I will find you. We do not yet know who we are. None of us know who we are. Not just yet.

--Mitchell Hegman