(This is Part 2 of a series. Go back to Part 1.)
My cat Nicky has come back from the near-dead. How it happened is a very interesting story.
He was no longer responsive. His head was bent back, his legs were stiff, his eyes were glazed over. He reminded me of my Mom just before she died.
To say goodbye, I laid down and put him on my chest—his favorite position—and just started petting him and talking to him.
After about an hour of this his hind legs suddenly started twitching a little. I kept going. Off and on, I kept petting him and talking to him on my chest from about noon to midnight. And I noticed his hind legs were now jerking.
That night as I went to sleep I placed his body next to mine, and all night long, as I tossed and turned, I was careful to keep his body next to mine. Now here comes the unbelievable part:
The next morning when I woke up, he suddenly lifted his head up and then tried to stand! He was back! Not in terribly good condition, to be sure, but he was back.
It might sound crazy, but I think it was the power of love alone that brought him back. From wherever he was, he heard the call on some deep level and responded. Yup, call me crazy.
Anyway, after astounding his dad, he tried to stand a couple of times and fell over. So I held him up and helped him to walk. After about an hour he was able to get his balance and walk a bit.
What also became apparent was that he was blind. He would walk into things, he seemed not to know where anything was. I had to show him even where his food dish was. But he ate. I rushed out and got him some raw liver and he began to eat it.
I figure, if raw food is good for me it must be good for him. After all, raw food is what animals eat in the wild—why not at home? Anyway, he devoured the raw liver.
Then I noticed something really interesting. Even though he was completely blind—verified by a vet—he just began to explore around. He was quite matter-of-fact about it; he just started methodically exploring his surroundings, sensing his way.
I thought about how it might have been if you or I had become blind. We'd probably have done a big voice-over about it: "Why did this have to happen to me? What did I do to deserve this? I can remember the good old days when I wasn't blind," etc., etc.
As far as I can tell, Nicky didn't have any of that. No self-pity, no voice-over, nothing. As far as I can tell, he didn't spend a moment bemoaning his fate. He just began systematically exploring his environment, adjusting to his new circumstance.
In fact, he seemed about as happy as before. I was struck by how in-the-moment he was. Since he wasn't doing any comparisons with his past, since he didn't have any belief that something should be different, he just hung out in the present and enjoyed it for what it was. He's still doing it.
Animals are so cool. They just seem to hang out in the present. What a gift that they apparently don't have all these voice-overs going on about how the world should be, how others should be, and how they should be. What a freedom.
And I was struck, again, at how reality is always right.
I don't know how else to put it: Reality is always right.
No matter how it goes, that's where it's supposed to be. How do we know? Because that's where it is.
Who's right, the little ideas in our 3-pound brain about how reality is supposed to be, or the vast reality's idea of how itself is supposed to be?
I bowed down again to the vastness that knows so much more than this little "unit" knows, and yet—mystery of mysteries—is not separate from it either.
(This is the end of Part 2. Go to Part 3.)
—jim sloman, 11/27/02 for 1/03/03
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