My Little Vacuum

It's such a beautiful day. I wish Lancelot could see it.

A few days before Lance died, I walked to a park near my office and watched as the people went about their business. It was unusually warm, just like today. A group of children tossed a ball, and some little girls danced to the sounds of music in their heads. Several women walked their dogs. I leaned down to touch the ground. I liked the feeling of the grass between my fingers. I thought about bringing Lancelot there so he could see, smell, feel the outside. I had never allowed him out of the house, so he had never experienced the outside. He was so out of it at that point that I knew I could bring him there and he wouldn't run away. I wish I could have given him that experience, but I worried he would be upset by the commotion.

Some of my friends think it's time for me to get a new cat. I'm worried. What if I can't love it? What if I bring it home and feel nothing? Will I feel guilty for loving a new cat?

On the other hand, I feel terribly lonely. I would be saving a life, which is never a bad thing. I would have a new warm body to curl against at night. I got home late yesterday after a horrible day. For just a moment I forgot Lancelot was gone. I was ready for a kitty hug. I would come in the apartment and say, "Lancelot, I had a bad day. I need a kitty hug!" And then I'd get it, at least until he got sick of me.

I've lost some important things over the past year--a serious boyfriend, a beloved pet. Lancelot was a member of my support system. I have many wonderful and supportive human friends, but sometimes I just want that purrrrrrrrr, that mysterious vibration that means unconditional love. I called Lance my "little vacuum" because that's what his purr reminded me of. Sometimes I would just look at Lancelot and he'd start purring, even if I wasn't touching him. It made me feel warm, safe, secure. It made me feel loved.