Day Three

I got an orange cat for my 16th birthday and I named him Harley. He was a purebred (inbred, quite honestly, and more obviously as one would notice given the chance to spend longer than 30 seconds with him) with a flat face and a penchant for acquiring dingleberries.

But we loved him. Oh, we loved him.

My parents, during a particularly trying time in their lives, found that Harley bridged the gap between them when the river of silence was too tumultuous to cross. I remember watching them standing in a room and when they were seemingly a football field apart, Harley would walk in the room and they'd suddenly be side by side.

"Look at him! Oh, Harley... silly cat. Oh dear, where's the brush? Ha ha ha... oh my. What a funny looking thing. Poor Harley." *pet pet pat pat purr purr*

And me? I'd be alone in my room crying my eyes out about some wretched beastly boy who had broken my heart into a million irreparable pieces and Harley would cruise in, jump up into my face and kiss me with his furry and wet little nosey and then all of a sudden I'd smile, or shudder with relief that no, I'm not alone. That yes, even when I think I can't possibly breathe in one more breath to keep me alive, I am suddenly able to sit up and reach out and love. *pet pet pat pat purr purr*

My dad loves to tell this story. A bird flew into our house one day and the usually docile Harley (a borderline medical problem of the lazy sort) became... well... an animal. He was on FIRE. His tail swooshed around, his ears pricked up and his eyes darted to and fro. His mouth, barely seen for the surrounding face wrinkles, twitched with adrenalin. It was time for a feast.

He stood at the foot of our fridge staring up into the corner of the kitchen where he had first detected the scared bird.

Except the bird had flown away, and out the door.

And yet Harley still stood at the foot of the fridge, waiting, tail swooshing, ready to pounce. On nothing. For hours.

Don't we all do that sometimes? I do. I get so pissed off, so caught up in my own indignant anger, justifying it all simply by the intensity of my emotions (SURELY I have been wronged, for how could I feel so angry if I wasn't?!) that I get stuck there. I get that glazed over look in my eyes where all I can see is The Problem and nothing else. Meanwhile, The Problem takes off into the background and perches itself on its fellow meaningless Problems (in the grand scheme of life) while I sit there and stare at the empty space, angrier than ever, and I'm probably drooling. And let's just hope I don't have dingleberries stuck to my fur.

I miss Harley.