We are all longing for something.
are in control think we are in control, we can cover this with niceties and propriety. “I’m fine. All’s cool. No worries.”
When we are honest, we’re prone to act like Coco.
Coco, a many-toed wisp of black fur, is one of our Generation A kittens. Until last week, she was simply one of our kittens. However, since April launched, Tabby’s Place has gone from five teenagers (Coco, Chanel, Bertie, Ernestine and Zoey) to twenty-three wee bits of varying ages.
There’s the eighteen all under one week of age: that’s Generation C for ya.
There’s the four five-week-olds: call ‘e Gen-B.
And finally, there’s our original kids, now on the brink of adulthood. That brings us back to Coco, and you, and me.
If Coco were a throwback Britney song, she’d be “Not A Girl, Not Yet A Woman.”
No, scratch that. She’d be “Oops, I Did It Again” — as in, “I’m not that innocent.” (Oh baby, baby.)
Over the past week, childlike Coco has traversed the wide ocean from little-kitten dreams of jingle balls to woman-cat yearnings for love.
She’s mad with longing.
She’s drunk in love.
If you have never witnessed a female cat in heat, I refer you to the following. You may want to plug your cats’ ears before hitting play:
(This is not Coco, but Coco feels for this poor soul…immensely.)
Now picture this trilling — this starving, searching trilling — for eight hours a day. Note that Coco lives in the Community Room, where most of us peons have our office space.
Desperate screams of desire. The ceaseless song of a dream deferred.
All. The. Live. Long. Day.
This is, in fact, why they pay us the big bucks at Tabby’s Place.
Don’t get me wrong. It’s not so much the trilling, or rolling, or weirdly-aggressive affection that gets to us. It’s simply the sight of a beautiful little creature in so much anguish.
Yes, Coco is doing a biological dance. Yes, it’s her body and her hormones and her lusty animal spirits driving her dirges.
But I dare say it’s not too anthropomorphic to insist: this is a cat consumed by yearning.
Coco’s getting spayed this week, which will put an end to this particular hunger. But her desperate songs have got me thinking. Is there not something honest and brave about crying out so whole-souledly? Coco’s under no compulsion to cover her angst with decorum. She knows she’s in need, and she’ll
sigh scream her song of supplication until love finds her. (Or we take out her uterus. But that’s another metaphor for another time.)
Funny thing about crying out for help: whether we’re a kitten or a congressman, our calls won’t go unheard.
Seek and ye shall find. Knock, and the door will be opened. Trill, and you’ll be taken care of.
And all the while, love is loudly singing back with a reckless raging fury, just waiting for our brave and honest heat.