Bituminous nestles in my lap, furry head in the crook of my elbow, his green eyes gazing unblinkingly at me for a minute or two, then closing in trusting sleep. I gaze back, trying to absorb a lifetime’s worth of the joy and love I receive from Bituminous, and attempting not to dwell on his increasing age and poor health.
I don’t really know how to describe what this cat does for me, but somehow he calms me deep inside, reminds me of some of the basics of my faith (trust lived out in practical, real-life actions), and fills me with a warm, happy feeling.
I try to read my book, normally gripping and hard to set aside, but when Bituminous opens his eyes every few minutes I have to put the book aside and look in my cat’s eyes. He’s deaf and doesn’t understand much English; I’m human and don’t speak Cat, but we both speak the language of connection, and whenever those eyes open, we engage in rich communion.