The Human Whisperer

It was one of the worst days of my life. My friend Shannon had died. It was about 2 weeks after she’d had a successful stem cell transplant – her prognosis had been good. Except now she was dead. I almost threw up when her partner John told me, my knees threatened to buckle, white-knuckled fingers held the top of our kitchen island so that I wouldn’t crumble. The rest of my day was bi-polar.  I’d be okay for a few minutes, but then I’d choke on sobs – I couldn’t breathe. The pit of my stomach was roiling – my own internal hurricane – I kept swallowing bile.

We watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button – a really bad choice when one of your best friends has just died. Life and death are so skewed in that film. I collapsed in bed at the end of the night – another crying jag – David smoothing his hands across my back – me trying to catch my breath – clutching for calm before the emotions slammed me again.

Our cat, Minuit, leapt onto the bed. She dropped a soft toy on my chest. It was part of a monster doll set – little plush pieces that velcroed together – you could add an arm or an extra eye, a tail or horns – like making your very own tribe of Wild Things.

“Honey,” I said to her. “I can’t.  I can’t play right now.” Minuit liked you to throw the toy and she’d fetch it for you – it was one of her favourite games. I took the toy away and stashed it in my bedside table.  David held me as I started to cry once more.

A few minutes later, Minuit dropped another piece on me.

“Minuit. No. I can’t.” That piece, too, ended up in the bedside table.

A few minutes later – another piece, and then, when I refused the throw that one, another…  and another… and another…

She didn’t want to play. She was bringing me gifts. We were on the second floor, and every time I took a toy, she’d tromp two floors down to the basement – jump into the toy box to find a piece and she’d offer it to me. 

I guess she didn’t know what else to do, given my bouts of hysterical sobbing. She was giving me the equivalent of dead mice – she wanted me to feel better. It went on for about half and hour. I found myself laughing and crying, with 23 monster toy pieces in the bedside table by the time she was done. Then, she lay beside me, pressed to my side – pumping her paws against my ribs to let me know that she was there.

So go ahead, try and tell me that cats are anti-social. You’re wrong.