All of Your Wildest Dreams will Come True

Last Thursday evening, I found myself, dishpan, scooper and disinfectant in one hand, brush and dustpan in the other, standing with six other crazy women in a large warehouse containing... 70 cats.

I spent two hours on hands-and-knees, climbing into the cages of mischievous kitties, meticulously cleaning every inch, carefully shaking out their little beds and towels, scratching each chin and scooping each litter box. At first, I busily and competently raced through my tasks with the career-ish belief still firmly lodged in my brain that there was an end, a goal, some sort of something to be completed. It took me a good hour to realize that my time in this place, voluntarily and willingly sacrificed, was not to be spent racing toward a goal.  I began to enjoy the work, to enjoy focusing on one cage and cleaning it as carefully as possible until moving on to the next, to chat happily with volunteers and oodles of attention-hungry kitties.

Each cat and kitten was lovingly cared for. My favorite part was walking into the "cageless room," where 15 or so cats live all together in one milling herd. They were so excited to see me! I picked up one fat, happily squirming tuxedo kitten in one hand and an equally fat tortoiseshell in the other... And smooshed them together! It was immensely satisfying.

Sometimes I think I love animals more than people. They aren't selfish beyond the satisfaction of their basic needs. They aren't conniving or two-faced. They don't have ulterior motives, and those who were raised not to be afraid of people offer their love so freely, without judgment.

When I got Kiska, my little white snow princess kitty, she was terrified of me. I lamented, worried that I chose the wrong cat - but only because she didn't love and admire me like I loved and admired her. I worried about this for many, many months when my love wasn't reciprocated as I was expecting.

Over time, I began to realize that it's not at all about me. Not even a little bit. Even the shyest creature deserves a loving, safe home - and Kiska would never be able to survive outside. She needs me. Even if she stared at me blankly from under the bed, frightened and trembling as I filled her food bowl - for the rest of her life - I would still love her and know that she needs me to care for her. If she's healthy and well-fed, content to be alone and snooze in a sunbeam while I'm not home, I have improved her life.  If she eats too fast and pukes on the floor, I willingly clean up after her.  With her happiness in mind, I have sacrificed my money to feed her, given her a safe space in which to snooze, and allowed her the company of another feline companion to snuggle with.  I don't need her affection to love her and care for her. I don't have the right to expect her love, and should never, ever judge an innocent creature based on its degree of affection for me.

And then, of course, she learned to trust me and has slowly revealed herself to be the sweetest, loveliest pixie of a cat. Of course I made the right choice when I rescued a homeless, terrified creature. I should never have doubted it.