I was sitting in the library Tuesday night (yes, we have a library because I have a million books, all of which my children will someday be required to sort through and pack up since I cannot bring myself to do anything but add to the collection . . . unless they follow my suggestion to take what they want from the house and set fire to the rest . . . please do not judge me . . .). The fireplace was roaring (actually, just quietly whispering since the world had warmed up considerably—it had roared in the days of Snowmageddon) and I was re-reading the words that were splattered across the screen of my laptop. There was a weekly blog due, and the muses had yet to speak.
I had only started a dozen times, then hit control A to select all and then delete. It’s the technological equivalent of ripping the paper from the typewriter, crumpling it into a tiny ball, and tossing it into the overflowing trash can, only less wasteful. There were too many other things on my mind, demanding my mental and emotional attention and keeping me from my goal—a blog that would hopefully be informative if not also entertaining. Or at least something that would be posted by 8:30 Wednesday night.
That’s when I heard it. The quietest little meow at the back door that opens off that room. I turned to find a large, golden orange, exceedingly fuzzy cat. It was Herman.
We have four outside cats who were once come-and-go inside cats but who adamantly refused to use a litter box. After years of trying to retrain them and using multiple boxes and doing everything else I could possibly find in my online research, they were evicted from the house. I determined that was my only course of action when we recovered the living room furniture (their absolute favorite place), bought a new rug (which had been their absolute favorite “litter box”), and then covered EVERYTHING in plastic. I walked through one day, stopped to look at the heavy-duty protective barrier I had taped over the world, and realized I had become the crazy cat lady.
Herman has discovered that the library is my writing/thinking room and has learned if he sits at the door and cries, I’ll hear him. And then I’ll feel guilty which leads to temporary admission. So, I set my laptop aside, unlocked the door, and invited Herman in. He was hesitant, as usual (Herman is hesitant about everything except running away), but after a minute he slowly entered. I picked him up, took him to the couch, and he settled into my lap . . . then onto the rug . . . then wallered all over my feet . . . and purred and drooled and slung cat spit everywhere in his contentment.
He also took my mind off all the things that had kept it so preoccupied and nonfunctional. And when Herman finally decided he’d had enough and was ready to exit, I knew what today’s blog would be.
There’s a reason many people who have lost their spouse to death or divorce will choose to adopt a pet if they don’t already have one. The loss of a spouse can be isolating and lonely and depressing, conditions that are proven risk factors for health problems and even death. Your home is quieter now. There’s no one to talk to or share your day with. But you know what a pet can provide? Companionship. Someone to communicate with (and even though they don’t usually talk back, you’ll swear they understand you). Their care can give you a reason to get up in the morning; their need for exercise can give you a reason to get out. Granted, it’s certainly not the same as having your husband or wife sitting in the chair beside you, but the right pet can ease that overwhelming sense of aloneness. Once you become their person, they just seem to know when you need them most, and they will always be there for you. And there isn’t a lot that beats a kitty or a puppy snuggle.
I’m not gonna say Herman’s motives were as altruistic as what I just described, but it doesn’t really matter. He provided the kind of comfort and the companionship I needed in that moment. He distracted me from the quicksand my brain occasionally becomes, and he forced me to take the time I needed to refocus my thoughts—just as any pet can do for anyone willing to allow it. Even though my spouse is still alive and semi-well, sometimes I just need a cat. This time it was Herman. So thank you, old man, for loving me the way you do and helping me keep my sanity. There are just some days everyone needs a Herman.
About the author: Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth-generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926 and has worked with Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 45 years. Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.
