kicking cats

I love cats. I really do. It hurt when I kicked our cat last night.

Not just my shin, but the cat as well. I was awakened from the sofa by my wife (without whom I likely wouldn’t love cats) and asked to come to bed. As I made my way to check the door of our Manhattan apartment, I accidentally struck Silas with a solid blow to his small, loving head.

His deep blue coat is hard to see in small light. At impact he gave me a quiet Silas chirp, he’s the most soft spoken cat I’ve known, and scampered away. When Si failed to join us in bed a few minutes later, I rose to check his well being.

Si was crouched in the middle of the room and when he saw me emerge from the bedroom he scurried for darkness. Si doesn’t run from me. He knows me. He welcomes me. I was the first hand to ever touch his soft, shiny, coat. He hasn’t forgotten.  I didn’t pursue him and retreated to bed.

When I woke in the morning Si wasn’t at his usual post, guarding our dogs we say, I looked forward to seeing him. I emerged from the bedroom again and there he was, on the shag rug enjoying the morning sun. He stood, arched his back and moved forward to my hand.  Another day has begun.