Ivy has decided she is a clock. This meowing cat begins poking me in the head around 7 a.m. or so.
Even though I get up and put dry food in her bowl, she eats it quickly and is back beside me soon after. She sits behind me on my bed and meows and pokes me with her paw until I pet her.
I try to fend her off for a bit. But she is insistent. It’s time to get up because Ivy has taken the role of running the morning show.
Once I’ve gotten up, gotten dressed and fed them their morning meal, which for her is a teaspoon or so of wet cat food, she darts about the apartment like a fly refusing to light.
I step over the toys she has dragged out of the toy bin during the night and begin to pick them up.
Now there are birds chirping outside the front window. And even though you can’t see out for all the condensation, Ivy is up on the window sill, still as a stone as she listens to them.
Though Ivy is a big girl she romps around this place like she has springs in her feet.
She goes through the apartment looking for shadows and has memorized when one will appear where. If she can reach the shadow she will paw at it curiously.
She likes to lay on the table next to me so I’ll stop what I’m doing and pet her head.
She has hopped and run and played until she grew tired and sleepy.
Ivy has done her work for the morning. She’s gotten me out of bed, gotten her morning meal, danced around like a ballerina on stage and now she needs her morning nap.
She likes to sleep on the pet bed behind my recliner.
It was five months after I lost Abi that I felt at all ready to introduce a new pet into this home. Those months of grief were so hard I didn’t think I’d ever find my way out of them.
I still grieve for Abi. I still cry. She was a mischievous silly little girl and I cherished her. But the grief has lessened somewhat.
I cry at times like this when I’m writing about her and feeling emotional.
Ivy came into this home and seemed to immediately take on a role.
She stared into my eyes and saw my grief and touched me with her paw as if to say: “I know it hurts. But I’m here now to help you move forward. I will make you laugh again.”
And with laughter comes levity. It eased the tight grief in my chest and I could watch Ivy play and I smiled and laughed at her antics.
I see Abi in my mind’s eye. She had such a sweet and fun filled personality.
I loved her so much. Still do and always will. Nothing can ever take that love away.
Ivy found her way into my heart quickly. She sat next to me patiently while I cried with a look of concern in her eyes.
Then she would reach out with one of those big paws and touch me. She would leave her paw there until I calmed down, her head tilted to the side as though she understood the grief I felt.
Then she would jump down and grab a toy and start playing. And I would smile watching her.
After you lose a pet you may be reluctant to rescue another. You may think your heart cannot love like it loved before.
But that’s the thing: there is no limit to how much you can love. There is more than enough love to go around.
“Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives.”