It starts with a screaming cat

The vet tells me it's dementia. She doesn't know where she is, so she screams. Don't I get it, cat. Some days I wake up and the Sun hits just right and my limbs are stretched out and I swear the cat is me. And then the cat screams. So I go on walks. I don't walk far but I walk deeply. I haven't measured, but if I had to guess I'd say our meeting place is 3,128 steps from my house. Where I found T all those months ago. Back when it was cold. Now it borders Grassy Pond and sits on a bed of moss. Now I go barefoot because feeling the green sponge give under my feet is my form of therapy. Other than T that is. Talk about a relationship that's not easy to put into words. Talk about untrodden territory. There's nothing I can't say or do in T’s presence. T always stands in the same spot. I'm always the last one to show up and the first one to leave. I have a screaming cat to attend to after all. Conversation is scarce, but that's the nature of our relationship. I'm bound to do the talking. And then go and write about it. T simply exists. We hug a lot. Mostly I do the hugging and T does the standing. Still, hugging T is my Prozac.

The thing about a Mass Audubon Sanctuary is it humbles you. You take your life seriously and pay mortgage and share interesting articles on Facebook and bake bread and practice self-care like it’s nobody’s business. And then you step into a wildlife sanctuary and you’re a grain of sand. I used to strut into Ashumet Holly. Now I tread quietly. Admiring every lady’s slipper that colors the path, stopping for each bunny I interrupt dinner for, looking up at the swallows and orioles guarding their home from intruders like myself, observing the bathing toads and leaping turtles. Sometimes I think I’ve imposed myself on T. Like this is a place for peace and quiet, not thoughts and feelings. But I can’t help myself. I’ve grown attached. And that’s the thing about T, there’s never any judgment there. Not when I swear I’m gonna shoot the cat. Not when I pluck a honeysuckle or two to suck on during our reunions. Not when I don’t show up because something came up. T is my umbrella on a rainy day. My shade on a hot one. T grounds me when the earth beneath crumbles. 

Yesterday the cat woke me up screaming at 4am. I had taken her to the vet the day before and this was my punishment. This is what the cat does. Some days are louder than others. I dust myself off after a rough night’s sleep and go on with my day, starting with the daily self-prescribed bowl of oatmeal. Some may say cooking first thing in the morning is an abomination. I say it’s medicinal. The slow stir of water and oats over a gas burner; the picking of the peanut butter from the pantry; the dusting of the pungent cinnamon; the fruit placement. It’s my 10 minute meditation. This is also why I visit T in the evenings, before dinner time. Then I have something to get back to an empty house for. Other than the fucking cat. She’s not the only one with needs, goddammit. Some weeks it becomes glaringly obvious when I’ve missed a single day of bathing in the forest. Just the other day I noticed new signs had been erected running all along the road I always take to get there. NO PARKING TOW AWAY ZONE. Not in the many years I’ve lived here have I ever seen a car on the side of the road. I have seen Fireball nips. Pampers diapers. McDonald’s take-out boxes. Rotting fish. And now, NO PARKING TOW AWAY ZONE signs every 200 feet for about a mile and a half. Visual pollution at its finest. These days I mosey away to my little corner of the world at a faster pace. Sometimes the joy is in the destination and not the journey. I may be unable to count on humanity not to bombard nature with anthropocentric accessories, but I can count on T to rein me back in and remind me what is important. Who is important. It’s T and what T stands for. It’s even a screaming cat.