Bella

My cat sits and blinks thoughfully into the wind. She seems to be contemplating the movement of her whiskers, as if she’s unsure as to how they suddenly came to life and began dancing upon her face. Then she catches a glimpse of me through the window and she miaows in her own unique way. She never quite got the hang of miaowing. For the first month I had her, I never heard a peep out of her. Well, not a mew, anyway. I heard crashes and bangs and gallumphing as she frollicked about, and purring when I scratched her ears, but she wouldn’t speak. I open the door for her as she miaows her unique miaow at me, and she walks through and immediately plops down to the floor, presenting her belly to be rubbed. I oblige, for her little speckled belly is so cute.

Other people talk about their clever cats, the ones who open doors and remember what time their owners get home from work each day so they can be waiting at the gate. I’m forced to admit that Bella is not the smartest kitty in the whole world. I have to leave doors open for her, because she can’t even figure out that if she miaows or scratches at them, I’ll open them for her. She’ll miaow if she sees me through the glass door, but the opaque wooden doors present a problem. For a while I’d try closing them, only to open them several hours later to find Bella staring up at me as if to say, “well, you took your time”. But you don’t need intellect to be a hedonist, and that is what Bella is: a perfect hedonist. She’ll do exactly what makes her happy at any given moment, and as soon as it stops making her happy, she’ll stop doing it. So I rub her belly for a good ten minutes, as she stretches out her hind legs and curls her front paws around my wrist and she is perfectly happy. Then abruptly she changes her mind and decides that water would make her happier, and I am left sitting on the floor, my hands still at kitty-belly height as Bella saunters over to her water bowl. Having drunk her fill of water, she begins a frolic, chasing insects too small for my eye to see – who knows if they really exist? She sprints along behind the couch, over the speakers, through the entertainment unit, over a chair and leaps up to hang on the screen door. “Bella!”, I yell, because she knows she’s not allowed to do that. She leaps back down and looks at me with startled innocense, pleading with her eyes they she did nothing wrong. It only lasts a minute before she’s back into her frolic, up the ladder to my bedroom and sliding back and forth on my slippery polished floor. That always makes her happy, and happiness is all Bella aims for.

She somehow knows, though, that her happiness is tied up with mine. A sad mistress may not want to rub her belly for ten minutes, you see. And so she is stunningly empathetic. She seems to know just when I am down, and how to cheer me. As I sit cross-legged on the floor, she will put on her best cuteness impression. She works her head and forepaws through the gap between my hip and my elbow and stares up at me with her googly eyes, as if to say, “look, you love me, I make you happy. So you have no need to be sad”. Or if I am at the computer, she’ll sprawl herself between the keyboard and the monitor, resting her chin on the keyboard and staring at me until I’m forced to smile. Then she’ll reach out her front paw to me in triumph.

When it suits her, she sleeps on my bed at night, all snuggled up with an old jersey of mine – soft chenille, which makes her very happy. I used to wear it, but Bella loved it so much that I couldn’t bear to deprive her of it. She’ll want to be in contact with me as we sleep, so she’ll sleep on the small of my back, or in the crook of my knees, or purring at my belly as I lie curled int he foetal position. And as we sleep I feel her love pressing into me. She eminates it with each purr and she lets me know that I’m part of her bliss. And so she becomes part of my bliss.