PARTICLES to WAVES

Three years ago last night, or sometime before that night, someone, in the company of an adorable, tiny, filthy, ear-mite-ridden, wounded-lip kitten, left that kitten – the veterinarian would later presume − in front of a neighborhood. The kitten spent at least Halloween night on his own in a world full of cars and kids and hawks and owls and coyotes.

Three years ago tonight, as I was enjoying “20,” the Pearl Jam documentary, I decided to grab one last bottle of wine from the garage refrigerator. I opened the door and, on the step looking up at me was a small feline face − all eyes and ears. Startled, the kitten ran. I couldn’t find him. So I left a pillow case for him to sleep on and a small dish each of food and water, and I hoped I’d see him again the next day.

The following morning, I got out of bed like it was a childhood Christmas. I quietly and slowly opened the door. That immediately loveable face raised from his curled-up place on the pillowcase, and he looked up at me. He’d finished all the food and water. I was so happy.

After a morning of searching for the kitten in between shelves, and freeing him from a kayak he explored and got stuck in, the little guy gradually lost his fear. I started calling him Little Buddy. By that afternoon, the kitten let me feed him from my hand and pick him up and hold him close inside my jean jacket. I named him Eddie. Sometime soon later, after I’d taken him in the house to live, while treating him to a cheese snack, I further named him Eddie Cheddar.

Three years later, I’m still taking joy in taking care of Eddie. And from his excited-chirp morning greetings to his Mickey Mouse paws blanket-kneading purrs before sleep, he also takes care of me. Eddie’s funny. He demolishes toys meant for German Shepherds. He chases wadded-up tinfoil scraps, and wine corks, blush brushes, and tennis balls. He plays with lettuce leaves. He anchors a leaf to the counter and chews it down like a dog would a bone.

Eddie dances with herb sprigs. When I place a stem of rosemary or parsley in his water bowl, Eddie picks up the botanical toy with his teeth and then jumps, the sprig like a mouse in his mouth. He loves snacks of Parmesan cheese, smoked turkey, Cheerios and bacon bits. All I have to do is pay attention to what Eddie pays attention to, and new toys and treats for him reveal themselves to me. He’s just good at letting me take care of him.

Lately, Eddie asks for a daily bath. Sometimes, when I shower twice, he asks twice. Each morning or evening, after I turn off the water, as I step out of the shower, Eddie appears in front of the bathroom door. He waits until I walk toward him and I squeeze my wet hair on his back, and then I pet him. I tell Eddie what a good boy he is, and he chirps and makes all sorts of playful, happy animal words. I dry him with a washcloth. Then Eddie rests on the floor and continues his bathing more cat-like, methodical, his fur in small, damp mohawks and scruffs.

Some days when I open the utility room door to leave the house, Eddie hops on top of the washing machine. I offer him a handful of catnip treats. As I close the door, Eddie tilts his face, fitting as much as I can see of him – those eyes he’s grown into − as he can in that space.

Every day, Eddie makes me laugh, and, now as I read to him, think about how complexity works. I’m both confounded by − but also thankful for − some stranger or couple or group of strangers who abandoned a kitten. The exact same act did two simple things: it endangered a new and vulnerable life − and fed one.  -November 2016