My Dearest Henry James,
By now you know that you are my best friend who is not a person.
When you came into my life, you were named Periwinkle, but that had to change. You were young, just about one, and independent. Your sister had already been adopted, but you made it clear that you wanted to be the only one. We saw you parading on a big wheel; your eye contact was magnificent. You said, "I'm YOUR ONE." You were given this honorary name: Henry James.
Even in your youth, you had an intense gaze and a stillness that made you sincere and intense. You didn't say much, and when home, stayed hidden, for at least a night.
Within a week, you made it clear that there was one thing you loved above all others: FOOD.
Your appetite was fierce, and constant.
You were fine, on your own, and engaged when you needed something. Not particularly affectionate, you took your time warming up to your new environs.
This was ok. Any writer knows that space matters. We don't like to be crowded or fussed over, do we?
You accommodated nicely, taking an interest in birds, squirrels and ferals: the window was your television. And you always liked being in proximity of whoever was in the house.
I am sure you don't remember the day I looked at you and said, "I think something is wrong." You seemed to be sleeping quite a lot. In fact, your pensive nature had turned to lethargy.
A visit to the vet confirmed my worst fears. You were indeed very sick.
The vet phoned to relay: "Your cat has serious pancreatitis. we need to do more tests. And you have to take this seriously. He might not survive if you don't."
When the one you love is suddenly in trouble, you don't think of money.
Your diet had to change. You were given medications, and when you were in deep pain, you were given morphine injections.
Then you became diabetic and you needed insulin.
All of this seemed to happen so quickly. And I remind myself: You nearly died.
Once we saved you, we continued with meds until miraculously you no longer needed them.
Your pancreas had healed and you were no longer diabetic!
You began to behave like the kitten you had never been able to be. You started kneading blankets.
You started sitting on top of papers and sleeping in the bed, and staying close.
You became so playful and athletic I wanted to change your name to Dean Martin! The ultimate playboy emerged!
I have loved you more than ever since. You love life more than ever.
I read on Facebook about friends losing their cats, their dogs, their birds, their guinea pigs. Long ago it became clear that you are family to me. I think you would find me labeling you a pet an unfair moniker.
In ways, you own me more than I own you. You get me up at 6am and you are ready to retire at 8pm, assuming your position on the sofa, having kneaded your favorite blanket.
When I read recently about a politician from South Dakota shooting her dog, because the animal displeased her, I felt shaken to my core.
In the crazy world that human beings have created, Henry, I want you to know that you are a source of solace and peace for me, when I retreat from work and people activities.
Many times, I find your approach to life the more civilized one.
I'm sure you won't read this letter. But maybe someone else will, and that someone will think about his or her dog or cat or bird, and have that heavenly moment, that sweet feeling , that calm that can come only when in the presence of a best friend who isn't a person.
We take care of each other, and that's the way it should be.
Love, Feef, your provider and special pal