The Day I Lost My Patience

She waited for me. I worked a long shift and stayed after for some odd-end tasks because I thought I had time. It will haunt me why I clocked out late, stealing precious moments away from her. Yet she waited for me, patiently.

My sweet cat, Patience, of sixteen years, who was recovering from renal problems, waited all day to say goodbye to me. I felt her let go after she gave a soft meow as if to say she loved me. And then, she was gone.

The last time I cried that hard was when I lost my mom. Oddly, that day was only a few days after I picked Patience up from the local SPCA as my first foster cat, along with her three adorable kittens, who I named Tuxie, Sparkle and Star. Like her they were domestic, short-hair black and white cats.

Patience’s legs had black fur but her paws were white like she was wearing little boots. The pad of each paw were black as if she had stepped in ink. Those busy paws would get into everything within reach as she was innately nosey.

I’ll always miss her talking to me, conceivably telling me about her day. Her voice was sweet and distinctive. The end of her meow had a high note which at times seemed like she was asking a question. A meow seemed as if she was asking, “N-Now?”. Of which, I answered with, “Not now”, of course. But there were times, I replied, “Yes,” and more often, “Yes, I love you, too!” Other times, her meows were short and demanding, particularly if she wanted in her favorite spot, my lap.

She had a funny face. The pattern of white from her chin to cheeks ended in an asymmetrical peak above her nose bridge on her brow, like a white flame. I loved, just loved, her kitty lips, rounded both upper and lower like how an amusement park cartoonist might draw them. And I kissed those kitty-lippies even though she absolutely hated it. “Don’t kiss me with those boozy lips, dad!” I’d mimic her voice to me, if she could speak human.

We had full conversations. She would talk to me when I came home from work, when I was in a good mood, when I had my bad days, when I was with company, and when I was alone. I enjoyed it most when it was just us like when I had a break up, or when I was moving from place to place, especially this last year being so difficult. I was comforted by those conversations and her closeness. I knew I was never truly alone. The specter of loneliness was never felt. With her gone, that specter is here heavily now.

I had relocated very often, seven times since I adopted her, and felt so ungrounded but never missing a sense of home. It’s because she was my home. Wherever we were together was home. It occurs to me that home is not a place but a feeling of love with who you’re with and that to me had been her. Despite lovers, roommates, and friends coming and going, job changes and new houses, she was my constant anchor in a storm of life waves. Her love was my hearth.

When I named her, it was because I thought I would need patience to own a cat, one who was entirely my responsibility. I’ll never forget, yet always regret, the one day I lost my patience with her when I came home to a young cat who had knocked over a couple of plants. I was so incensed she ran and hid under the bed. God, how I felt like such a heel, as I laid on the floor coaxing her out with apologies and tears and relieved she came to me still scared and shaking. Now I think she had to have patience to deal with me. She would put up with my fits of frustration, my thinking out loud to myself, my long trips away, different friends that would come over to visit or take care of her while away, listening to my off-key singing and thunderous snoring, hugging her too tightly, and dancing with her spontaneously. Oh, those fun dances. My best dance partner. My best girl.

She had a funny walk, too. Her hind legs would kick outward as they scraped the ground. It was a flair to her strut. Oddly, for a petite cat weighing only six pounds, she made a thud with every step, commanding your attention as she entered the room. The queen has arrived!

She was fastidious about her grooming and cat baths. Afterwards she would sit pretty with her front paws together in front of her like a statue you would see for sale in an Asian novelty store. She was very social, often greeting people at the door. Visitors would pet her to discover how soft her fur was, like a chinchilla. Too tempting to not kiss her coat, they would say how she smelled good and sometimes like my cologne. Yes, evidence I’d been kissing her little head recently.

In Virginia where I live at the moment, there are red cardinals. I’ve been told that when one crosses your path or alights in view, it’s a sign that a loved one who recently passed are near, comforting and acknowledging our grieving hearts. I’ve seen many since I lost my Patience. It brings a knowing smile to my face, tears to my eyes, and a lump in my throat.

Some nights, when my slumber lightens, and I slide out of a deep REM state, I feel a depression in the comforter and think it’s her paws. Before drifting back to the ether of night, I mutter, “I love you, too, little one. I miss you so much.”

Sleep well, my precious Patience. I’ll see you again soon. And we’ll dance.