My cat’s eyes are like marbles. Glance from the side, and they are clear as glass. Across the center lies golden aluminum, glinting green. In the sunlight her eyes expand to compress a mere slit of jet black at its center. In hunting, her eyes are like the black obsidian we found up in the mountains.
There is good, even after pain. My cat before her had the most beautiful forget-me-not blue eyes, crossed, when she was hunting. She was sweet and feisty, training the new dogs to their place in the household. She was the princess of a thousand names, and she loved her cream.
I cared for her the whole night then let my parents bury her after the vet. I went to a movie with my brother and his friends. I don’t know if I cried, I was so numb after it all. My tears were the rose petals I left on her grave. Those of you who have loved in that way will understand. Those who haven’t, won’t.
My wild, golden-eyed cat is a joy. She walked on my back when I cried one night. She gave me the oddest look from the balcony above when I gargled at the sink below. She squalls like a colicky baby when I scoop her up and hold her like a baby. She has more intonations than some humans I’ve met. I swear she understands me.
I swear I understand her. This is her home, and she knows it. She owns it. She loves snuggling. She loves talking. She loves being up high. And she doesn’t take any guff from anyone. I’ll probably have that scar on my hand for the rest of my life. But I don’t really care. It’s a mark of joy.