I have a rescue cat who has been my constant companion since 2011. She is a lovely lass who has lived in lockdown for most of her life. Not because I am being cruel, but because she needs protecting. My girl is 13 years old. In Cat years that is nearly 100 years old. .
I am sitting here, having just watched the Trump Rally in Georgia and she has lain at my feet throughout the entire event. I keep giving her a rub with my feet and a gentle acknowledgment of love so that she remains strong through the reassurance of my love for her. The one thing that is staggering is that she has not bitten my toes once. I am wound free. I am without recent blemish on my toes and torso so today, thus far, has been a good day.
But I did look down fondly and smile at her aging body and consider that she now looks like an old cuddle rug that has been too well loved and too adored for one who is barely 13 years old.
My companion of 10 years is a cat who I " rescued " from an animal shelter back in 2011. I had gone to adopt an old and grumpy geriatric male cat who just wanted to sit on my lap, be fed and live his life out in a comfortable but confined space. I lived in an apartment - still do - and my objective was to find a cat who would find this living arrangement acceptable.
When I arrived to inspect the applicants, there was a young female cat who looked like she had been on a drug binge: lying helplessly and totally devoid of any communication with me or anyone else. I have no photos, suffice to say that she was in bad shape.
She seemed to struggle to get up and come to the front of her cage. Her limbs barely able to respond to the will of her mind. " What is the story with this cat? " I asked.
The young volunteer said " oh, little poppet. That's what we call her. She is a lost cause, poor thing. "
Little poppet was a victim of a violent attack by young teenage thugs who found her and put her in a sack and used her as a football. They put a fire cracker in the sack and it went off at the same time, I believe, as they kicked her in front of a car who ran her over.
It seems that they found this amusing.
She suffered a broken spine, broken legs and was suspected of having brain damage. Because she was so damaged, when she was found, she was used for a procedure that was being trialed to see if she could survive. The veterinary surgeons operated on her and she was put in to a shelter to die.
She looked at me. I looked at her.
I KNEW she would come home with me.
The volunteer said " she will not live 2 months. You know that, don't you? "
I said " Yes. But at least she will die in a home, not a cage. "
Over the next few weeks, I fed her and gave her space. She lay, motionless and would stagger to her litter box and, exhausted, collapse on the floor beside it. I massaged her little body and soothed her with kind words and love. If she was to die, she would die with someone who loved her.
She never showed any sign of recognition or anything at all really. She was just a little soul waiting to die.
But one day, she stood up. She didn't crawl. She actually walked, albeit clumsily, to her litter box and managed to fall in a heap. I praised her, reassured her and massaged her again. And again. And again.
Within a few months, she was walking then able to jump onto the couch and sit beside me.
A year later she was jumping onto my bed and playing with her toys and kicking me and purring in a snuggle at bedtime.
Since then, she has ruled my life. What she wants, she gets. On any celebration night where fireworks are let off, I open my wardrobe so that she can run in and hide. But, the past few years, she simply sits beside me and I pat her and let her know that she is safe.
Every month, I take her to Redhead's place ( to get a manicure and pedicure ) and she wanders around and checks out the yard and the many different rooms that Redhead has. She has sorted the Jack Russell terrier and let him know that he is not to ruin her visit. Redhead's cat Daisy, a pixie bobcat, remains unimpressed, unconcerned and totally disinterested.
Bridget ( that is her name though I do call her Bubbie because she is my baby ) has become a fierce warrior when it comes to toy mice and toy spiders. She can kick them, beat them up and generally put them in their place. And doles the same to me. I have many wounds to prove it.
This young lady bites me, scratches me and licks me. I am her mother,
This supposedly brain damaged, crippled and terminally ill cat has survived unimaginable horrors because she was LOVED.
When I looked down today and saw this darling girl lying at my feet as I watched the Trump rally, I thought that this was what it is all about.
The Right to Life. The Right to live. The Right to Fight.
She is now 91 years old in cat years. Thank goodness we found each other.
But we do need a helping hand along the way..
Bridget favours Trump, as do I.
She may have survived a battle but she won her war.
Can we win ours?
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