YOU CAN’T RUSH A SUNRISE
-Jeff Pratt
Four years ago, a little over a year after I settled here in Passumpsic, two blessings arrived to join me, and my home became Our Home—Cascadia—the Home of Jack, Silver, and myself. And what has unfolded is an ongoing story of love, trust, joy—and in the case of little Silver—Patience.
The Night is Darkest Before the Dawn
The Sunrise Story begins with Jack and Silver, two homeless friends braving cold winter nights in an old shed at the edge of town. Silver, a petite, silvery-grey female likely never knew a home, or at least a home where she felt the touch of a caring human hand. Jack, her amiable, burly, black protector clearly knew that touch. How and when this odd couple met and fell in with each other is anyone’s guess. It is clear to me now, that without Jack, Silver simply could not have survived. And without Silver, Jack would have had no purpose to survive.
Jack and Silver came to the attention of KAS near the end of the winter of 2017, and after several fruitless attempts at capture, first Jack, then Silver were secured at last. A visit to the vet revealed that Jack, despite his robust appearance, was positive for FIV (feline version of HIV). Ironically, little Silver was found to be in perfect health, though it was determined by her extreme shyness that she was likely feral.
First Glimmers
Nancy, her rescuer, fostered the pair through the spring and early summer, while Helen offered up her guesthouse the balance of the summer and into fall. It was mid-October when two “problems” combined to bring Jack and Silver here to what is now their home. First, the guesthouse was unheated and winter was coming on fast. Second, though Jack appeared hale and hearty, his FIV meant that contact with Helen’s several house cats was a real concern.
I had been volunteering at the shelter nearly a year when Helen asked if I would be interested in fostering the pair “over the winter”, and if I would be willing to stop over to meet them before deciding. And meet Jack I did, and as all who meet him, I liked Jack from the start, as he casually strolled over to greet me—granting me permission to stroke him and hear a brief purr. And then he just as casually ambled off to rejoin Silver in her chosen hiding place. But, as to meeting Silver—not a chance.
Helen revealed that after nearly a year since her rescue, Silver had not yet allowed a close encounter with anyone but Jack. The only hopeful moments?--twice Helen and Silver slow-blinked from across the room. “That’s a step”, she offered cheerfully.
The truth of the matter is that Jack had won me over without even trying.
There was something about his easy manner and relaxed geniality that pleased this long-time dog-lover. And Silver? I had no definite thoughts of Silver at that time—but somewhere deep a hope was born, and that, like Boo Radley, Silver would “come out” at last.
It was inevitable, and I’m certain Helen knew that from the start. A few months later, on a snowy Christmas Eve, I made the call, and asked if this guy and gal could join me as permanent residents. It was a great Christmas present to all four of us!
The Sunrise—Part I
Very seldom, if ever, do we watch a sunrise—the entirety—moment by moment.
Yes, we often “see” a sunrise, or part of one, possibly its most spectacular moment. But to see is not the same as to watch. And in watching we witness the truth that a sunrise is a wondrous and seamless event, measured by moments of shifting shapes, colors, and textures. All the while the blessed light enters the sky in a continual flow, until at last the sun peeks over the horizon and flows out over the waiting land.
Here in this home I have had, over a period of three years, the good fortune to watch, day by day, a most remarkable sunrise, not golden, but Silver. And though the actual sun will rise each day without our efforts, I have had a hand in this sunrise. Yet I also have had just enough wisdom not to rush it, though there were many times I was tempted to do so.
Upon entering Cascadia, even gregarious Jack hid out for a few hours, emerging to take stock of the new situation late afternoon. First checking out every little nook and cranny, he proceeded to reacquaint himself in his usual laid-back way. Not long after that he joined me on the couch, side-by-side, just enjoying the gentle strokes I offered. He remained there for maybe a half hour and then he was off on an exploration, presumably to find Silver safely ensconced who knows where.
Days went by and Jack and I got to know each other, earning mutual trust, polishing off each of our rough edges in how we interacted. How our relation deepened, and how more than one of my friends remarked that Jack was an old soul cat is a saga in itself. But back to Silver, the little cat I came to dub as the Will o’ the Wisp.
And for more than a month that is what she was. I never saw her plainly during all that time. At most she was a darting puff of smoke seen out of the corner of my eye as I entered a room. I could tell she ate, drank, used the litter box. I knew that whenever Jack left my side, he was off to join Silver. There were times, I admit, where I felt her glowing yellow eyes watching me from a safe distance, sizing me up, wondering what level of threat I posed—yet also watching Jack at my side, seeing how he favored those long slow strokes from head to tail. And I’m pretty sure she heard his purr—and in her own way, wondered what the heck that was all about.
-Jeff Pratt
Four years ago, a little over a year after I settled here in Passumpsic, two blessings arrived to join me, and my home became Our Home—Cascadia—the Home of Jack, Silver, and myself. And what has unfolded is an ongoing story of love, trust, joy—and in the case of little Silver—Patience.
The Night is Darkest Before the Dawn
The Sunrise Story begins with Jack and Silver, two homeless friends braving cold winter nights in an old shed at the edge of town. Silver, a petite, silvery-grey female likely never knew a home, or at least a home where she felt the touch of a caring human hand. Jack, her amiable, burly, black protector clearly knew that touch. How and when this odd couple met and fell in with each other is anyone’s guess. It is clear to me now, that without Jack, Silver simply could not have survived. And without Silver, Jack would have had no purpose to survive.
Jack and Silver came to the attention of KAS near the end of the winter of 2017, and after several fruitless attempts at capture, first Jack, then Silver were secured at last. A visit to the vet revealed that Jack, despite his robust appearance, was positive for FIV (feline version of HIV). Ironically, little Silver was found to be in perfect health, though it was determined by her extreme shyness that she was likely feral.
First Glimmers
Nancy, her rescuer, fostered the pair through the spring and early summer, while Helen offered up her guesthouse the balance of the summer and into fall. It was mid-October when two “problems” combined to bring Jack and Silver here to what is now their home. First, the guesthouse was unheated and winter was coming on fast. Second, though Jack appeared hale and hearty, his FIV meant that contact with Helen’s several house cats was a real concern.
I had been volunteering at the shelter nearly a year when Helen asked if I would be interested in fostering the pair “over the winter”, and if I would be willing to stop over to meet them before deciding. And meet Jack I did, and as all who meet him, I liked Jack from the start, as he casually strolled over to greet me—granting me permission to stroke him and hear a brief purr. And then he just as casually ambled off to rejoin Silver in her chosen hiding place. But, as to meeting Silver—not a chance.
Helen revealed that after nearly a year since her rescue, Silver had not yet allowed a close encounter with anyone but Jack. The only hopeful moments?--twice Helen and Silver slow-blinked from across the room. “That’s a step”, she offered cheerfully.
The truth of the matter is that Jack had won me over without even trying.
There was something about his easy manner and relaxed geniality that pleased this long-time dog-lover. And Silver? I had no definite thoughts of Silver at that time—but somewhere deep a hope was born, and that, like Boo Radley, Silver would “come out” at last.
It was inevitable, and I’m certain Helen knew that from the start. A few months later, on a snowy Christmas Eve, I made the call, and asked if this guy and gal could join me as permanent residents. It was a great Christmas present to all four of us!
The Sunrise—Part I
Very seldom, if ever, do we watch a sunrise—the entirety—moment by moment.
Yes, we often “see” a sunrise, or part of one, possibly its most spectacular moment. But to see is not the same as to watch. And in watching we witness the truth that a sunrise is a wondrous and seamless event, measured by moments of shifting shapes, colors, and textures. All the while the blessed light enters the sky in a continual flow, until at last the sun peeks over the horizon and flows out over the waiting land.
Here in this home I have had, over a period of three years, the good fortune to watch, day by day, a most remarkable sunrise, not golden, but Silver. And though the actual sun will rise each day without our efforts, I have had a hand in this sunrise. Yet I also have had just enough wisdom not to rush it, though there were many times I was tempted to do so.
Upon entering Cascadia, even gregarious Jack hid out for a few hours, emerging to take stock of the new situation late afternoon. First checking out every little nook and cranny, he proceeded to reacquaint himself in his usual laid-back way. Not long after that he joined me on the couch, side-by-side, just enjoying the gentle strokes I offered. He remained there for maybe a half hour and then he was off on an exploration, presumably to find Silver safely ensconced who knows where.
Days went by and Jack and I got to know each other, earning mutual trust, polishing off each of our rough edges in how we interacted. How our relation deepened, and how more than one of my friends remarked that Jack was an old soul cat is a saga in itself. But back to Silver, the little cat I came to dub as the Will o’ the Wisp.
And for more than a month that is what she was. I never saw her plainly during all that time. At most she was a darting puff of smoke seen out of the corner of my eye as I entered a room. I could tell she ate, drank, used the litter box. I knew that whenever Jack left my side, he was off to join Silver. There were times, I admit, where I felt her glowing yellow eyes watching me from a safe distance, sizing me up, wondering what level of threat I posed—yet also watching Jack at my side, seeing how he favored those long slow strokes from head to tail. And I’m pretty sure she heard his purr—and in her own way, wondered what the heck that was all about.
The beginning of the second month marked the first of many little epiphanies, each one leading to the next. I recall I had come downstairs and was irked to find I had left the woodstove flue open and the temperature a bracing 55. As I was stirring the embers to reveal some coals, I happened to look into the guest room to my right. And there she was! She and Jack had fluffed the blanket on the futon into a warm nest.
Jack was in the process of stretching, while Silver stared straight into my eyes. Knowing one move in her direction meant instant flight, I held my position, just meeting her golden eyes with mine. I recalled Helen’s closest encounter, and I very slowly blinked—once—twice—three times. I held my breath. Then...it happened! Only twice—and then she was gone. Jack rose and also looked at me as if to say, “Now that was special—But what about my breakfast?”
Apart from my elation at connecting for that brief moment, I was able to actually see her, not as a fleeting grey ghost, but as the incarnation of our little daughter’s beloved stuffed kitty, Keekat. Silver was graced with the same short, plush grey fur frosted with silver. Her perfectly triangular ears, puffball cheeks adorned with white whiskers, wide-open golden eyes—perfect, a cat-designer’s ideal. Her paws? Not so much—polydactyl, and way too large for this dainty girl, but as they were demurely crossed in a lay-like pose, they were just right. And a moment later, while I filled the food bowls, and Jack crunched happily, I wondered. Would this fairy-cat possibly grant me the gift of a single touch? Even then I knew if such a gift were ever possible, patience was crucial, active patience—finding just the right moments to coax the sunrise to rise higher..
The first such moment arrived in early spring. By then I had seen Silver several times, always at rest on the futon in the guest room, snuggled alongside Jack. At such times I rose from the couch and moved slowly toward the pair, speaking softly their names. Each time I did this, I was able to draw a bit closer before Silver jumped down and darted under the futon.
Soon after, I continued to speak to Silver while my hand stroked Jack until his purring filled the room. But on this spring afternoon, to my surprise, Silver remained within reach, as I inched my hand toward Jack. By now I clearly witnessed the struggle raging inside little Silver, half-rising, then settling back several times, fearful yet curious. Her eyes, now riveted upon my approaching hand, did not bolt away, even as I touched Jack and began to scratch around his ears.
Jack was in the process of stretching, while Silver stared straight into my eyes. Knowing one move in her direction meant instant flight, I held my position, just meeting her golden eyes with mine. I recalled Helen’s closest encounter, and I very slowly blinked—once—twice—three times. I held my breath. Then...it happened! Only twice—and then she was gone. Jack rose and also looked at me as if to say, “Now that was special—But what about my breakfast?”
Apart from my elation at connecting for that brief moment, I was able to actually see her, not as a fleeting grey ghost, but as the incarnation of our little daughter’s beloved stuffed kitty, Keekat. Silver was graced with the same short, plush grey fur frosted with silver. Her perfectly triangular ears, puffball cheeks adorned with white whiskers, wide-open golden eyes—perfect, a cat-designer’s ideal. Her paws? Not so much—polydactyl, and way too large for this dainty girl, but as they were demurely crossed in a lay-like pose, they were just right. And a moment later, while I filled the food bowls, and Jack crunched happily, I wondered. Would this fairy-cat possibly grant me the gift of a single touch? Even then I knew if such a gift were ever possible, patience was crucial, active patience—finding just the right moments to coax the sunrise to rise higher..
The first such moment arrived in early spring. By then I had seen Silver several times, always at rest on the futon in the guest room, snuggled alongside Jack. At such times I rose from the couch and moved slowly toward the pair, speaking softly their names. Each time I did this, I was able to draw a bit closer before Silver jumped down and darted under the futon.
Soon after, I continued to speak to Silver while my hand stroked Jack until his purring filled the room. But on this spring afternoon, to my surprise, Silver remained within reach, as I inched my hand toward Jack. By now I clearly witnessed the struggle raging inside little Silver, half-rising, then settling back several times, fearful yet curious. Her eyes, now riveted upon my approaching hand, did not bolt away, even as I touched Jack and began to scratch around his ears.
And then it happened—Halfway down the length of Jack’s body my hand took a slight right turn and touched Silver.
“One...two...three,” I silently counted. Silver flinched, rose, settled, flinched, and settled once more. “Eight, nine, ten—“ And then I returned my hand to Jack and he resumed his purring.
That was all. That was enough. I let the matter rest there—for now. In those brief moments of contact, I felt her muscles quivering, as she fought the hard-wired instinct to run and hide. But most likely for the first time in her life, she allowed—and felt—a human touch.
In the days to follow, the first touch led to the first scruff around the cheek and ears, the first stroke down the length of her back to the end of her tail. Little by little the quivering muscles steadied, and I recall the moment she stretched out her oversized front paws and leisurely kneaded the air.
So the sunrise was progressing nicely. But there were lines remaining that Silver, as yet, would not cross. First, she had come to allow my approach and my touch, but she only did so in the presence of Jack the Protector.
Secondly, even with Jack nearby, she would jump away if I suddenly appeared, as if she had totally forgotten who I was. Last, though she allowed to approach her, she would absolutely never approach me.
Dark Cloud Across the Sunrise
I was truly thankful for the new contact, and even though Silver often came across as more tolerant of my touch than happy, that was fine. But somehow I knew the sunrise was far from over. What I didn’t know then was that it would take a near-tragedy to jolt the sun to rise higher.
Our second winter together was brutal. You might recall it. The cold came early and deepened week by week, until mid-January, when the bottom fell out of the thermometer for more than a week.
It was at the beginning of this frigid time that Silver just disappeared. I searched the house from top to bottom. Every nook and cranny was met with a flashlight and my anxious eyes, again and again. No Silver. She was gone! To this day, I have no clue how she got out.
The detailed account of her second rescue is another story of patience—and diligence—and faith, and I will save it for another time. Here is the gist of it.
The first night I was sure she was gone. I called her original rescuer, Nancy, and asked if she could perform her magic once more. She arrived that very night and went to work.
And thus began a cruelly cold week of rising and falling hopes, near misses, new sightings and disappearances. That she had settled somewhere in the large two-story shed we knew for certain. We closed up all exits and left heated bowls of food and water, along with a shelter lined with blankets—but we had no clear signs she was using any of these.
On the sixth night the thermometer registered 20 below. That night, trying hard to sleep, each time I closed my eyes, a troubling image arose: Silver, that weary and cold wisp of a cat, huddled alone and scared, shivering in the dark. And as my hopes ebbed away, I tried to console myself that Jack was still here.
But then there was the sad thought that Jack was hurting, too. He knew what was going on, and he was lonely for his friend. And then it was then I realized how much Silver had become a part of my heart.
That was a long, long night.
At noon the next day I was placing wood in the stove when I received the cell phone call. It was Nancy, (bless her!) down there in the shed, still searching, still hopeful.
“Jeff, I see her—“ Nancy whispered. “She is behind the old freezer. I blocked off both sides, but to catch her I will need you here.”
My heart was pounding!
“No, not me”, I said. “I’ll call my neighbor, Tina. She’ll be more help. I don’t trust myself right now.”
That decision, wimpy as it sounds, might have been one of the wisest in my entire life. I knew I was way too anxious. It was one thing to be patient when all was well, but now the stakes were life and death, and I didn’t want my frantic state of mind to sabotage this. So I sat on the couch, head in hand, afraid to hope too much.
And then another call less than ten minutes later.
“We’ve got her!” We’re coming up. We have her!”
And have her they did, With Tina at one side of the freezer with a long stick, and Nancy on the other with a net, they secured this half-frozen survivor, and brought her home.
Sunrise—Part 2
It was no surprise that little Silver had lost nearly a third of her weight during those long cold days and nights in the shed. And while her weight slowly returned, the tips of her ears did not. A few days after her return I had noticed the fur was gone on her ear tips, and that they were hard and leathery. By the end of the weak they were gone. And though that was sad to see, her more rounded profile indicated a less guarded Silver.
For nearly two weeks, except for visits to her food and water, and forays to the litter box, Silver lay still on the rug directly in front of the woodstove, as if she were a heat-sponge. And during that time, I sat nearby, from time to time kneeling at her side, offering gentle strokes and comforting words that said to her ”Welcome Home”. Silver no longer required Jack’s presence to allow me to be with her.
As for Jack, though he visited her in her place by the fire, he never once lay at her side. It seemed to me that, once he knew she would recover from her ordeal, he wanted her to know that she had crossed a line with him as well. Silver had left him, and he had been deeply worried about her. He simply wanted her to know that. Or maybe he just wanted to give her space to center her scant energies and heal. Or both—after all, cats have their ways.
And there was something else, a little thing that deeply touched me. As Silver lay still by the fire, I would often look over at her from my place on the couch, as if I were subconsciously assuring myself she was still here and not out in the cold. And nearly each time I did this, she would raise her head and turn her eyes toward mine, as if assuring herself I was still here as well. I felt a bond had grown between the two of us. I suppose that bond was—and is—love.
This is not to say that when Silver fully recovered she transformed into some lap cat and joined Jack to greet me every time I came home. I would not really want that. That would be another cat, not Silver. But the sunrise flowed on, and we grew closer.
Over the next few months I noticed signs of greater trust. No matter where she might be, no matter whether Jack was at her side, each time I approached her, she stayed put. No longer did Silver’s muscles twitch and quiver at my touch as she fought her instinct to run away. Now her muscles relaxed and rippled as I ran my fingers down her back. And it was during one of those moments that I heard it! From a very deep place in a very small body, emerged Silver’s first purr. I was so startled at the volume, I pulled my hand away. She looked up at me languidly, rolled on her back, and for the very first time, my fingers stroked her belly. Suddenly, there it was again, as if she had swallowed a bullfrog on steroids, that Mother of all Purrs! Now mind you, Jack’s purr is plenty loud and manly, but it pales in comparison to Silver’s effort. I had to laugh! Queen Victoria belching at a royal dinner would have been less hilarious!
From that momentous moment on, Silver’s response to such moments shifted quickly from “I like this!” to “I REALLY like this!” to “I GOTTA have this!” And then she arrived at the point when each time I walked by she would look up, as if expecting that I stop on the way. At first, I gladly complied.
Like her time by the woodstove after her ordeal in the shed, Silver was seeking the very thing she was deprived of during her time in the wild. In this case it was not so much the warmth from a stove, but the love from a human. Of course, Jack loved her, and by now he had forgiven her, and they resumed their mad romps through the house, and their quiet times snuggling together. But this was something entirely new. Silver had been thirsty a long time without knowing it, and now here was the oasis.
I got that, and yes, this revelation brought me joy. BUT I have to admit that in the midst of all this sweetness and light, there was this one little matter that honestly ticked me off. And like that irritating little splinter you leave in too long, I was determined to finally deal with it.
It so happens that Silver, in her quest for a scruff around the ear and some strokes down her back, watches me like a hawk, and when I rise to pour a glass of wine, or bring in wood, she darts across the living room, leaps on the back of the cushy chair in the corner, and proceeds to perform an exotic dance the likes of which would make Gypsy Rose Lee blush. As she shamelessly promenades back and forth across the back of the chair, she proceeds to pre-purr, as if to lure me in.
I went along with the act for a few weeks, and then it dawned on me. All along the way, and especially now, it was I whom she expected to come to her. Not once had she ever approached me! With Jack it went both ways. Sometimes he came to my side, and I to his. Not Silver.
So now she was calling all the shots, and it was my turn to call one of my own.
The next time I rose to fetch some wood, and Silver darted to her perch, I stopped three feet from the chair. I stood there watching her gyrations just long enough for her to realize I would not move closer until she approached me first. And it worked! After a few minutes of her back and forth dance, and a few pauses to look at me quizzically, she got the idea, first extending her oversized paw toward me, then she melting into the cushion. Not until then, did I offer the strokes and scruffs.
It was a little thing, and maybe my pride entered in, but it mostly had to do with the importance of mutuality, and the sunrise took on yet another tone.
So that is where we are right now.
Silver Girl
A few weeks ago, I was visiting old performances on YouTube, and came across “Bridge over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel. I have always loved that song, and even more now that I have moved to Vermont and now reside on Bridge Street.
At the beginning of the last stanza the lyrics shift from “I’m here for you through your dark times” to “I am thankful you have crossed the bridge into brighter days”.
Here are the words:
“Sail on Silver Girl—sail on by—Your Time has come—all your dreams are on their way. See how they shine...”
The song ended, but those three lines repeated themselves in my mind all that evening—over and over. And the next morning—just at sunrise—I awoke with a smile. Silver had been a great name, but sometimes change is good.
Her “sun” has risen at last. And what the day will hold for Silver Girl only the
future will tell. Who knows? It might be that on some not-too-distant day Jack might rest on one side, Silver Girl on the other. After all, I have two hands.
And a lot of patience.
“One...two...three,” I silently counted. Silver flinched, rose, settled, flinched, and settled once more. “Eight, nine, ten—“ And then I returned my hand to Jack and he resumed his purring.
That was all. That was enough. I let the matter rest there—for now. In those brief moments of contact, I felt her muscles quivering, as she fought the hard-wired instinct to run and hide. But most likely for the first time in her life, she allowed—and felt—a human touch.
In the days to follow, the first touch led to the first scruff around the cheek and ears, the first stroke down the length of her back to the end of her tail. Little by little the quivering muscles steadied, and I recall the moment she stretched out her oversized front paws and leisurely kneaded the air.
So the sunrise was progressing nicely. But there were lines remaining that Silver, as yet, would not cross. First, she had come to allow my approach and my touch, but she only did so in the presence of Jack the Protector.
Secondly, even with Jack nearby, she would jump away if I suddenly appeared, as if she had totally forgotten who I was. Last, though she allowed to approach her, she would absolutely never approach me.
Dark Cloud Across the Sunrise
I was truly thankful for the new contact, and even though Silver often came across as more tolerant of my touch than happy, that was fine. But somehow I knew the sunrise was far from over. What I didn’t know then was that it would take a near-tragedy to jolt the sun to rise higher.
Our second winter together was brutal. You might recall it. The cold came early and deepened week by week, until mid-January, when the bottom fell out of the thermometer for more than a week.
It was at the beginning of this frigid time that Silver just disappeared. I searched the house from top to bottom. Every nook and cranny was met with a flashlight and my anxious eyes, again and again. No Silver. She was gone! To this day, I have no clue how she got out.
The detailed account of her second rescue is another story of patience—and diligence—and faith, and I will save it for another time. Here is the gist of it.
The first night I was sure she was gone. I called her original rescuer, Nancy, and asked if she could perform her magic once more. She arrived that very night and went to work.
And thus began a cruelly cold week of rising and falling hopes, near misses, new sightings and disappearances. That she had settled somewhere in the large two-story shed we knew for certain. We closed up all exits and left heated bowls of food and water, along with a shelter lined with blankets—but we had no clear signs she was using any of these.
On the sixth night the thermometer registered 20 below. That night, trying hard to sleep, each time I closed my eyes, a troubling image arose: Silver, that weary and cold wisp of a cat, huddled alone and scared, shivering in the dark. And as my hopes ebbed away, I tried to console myself that Jack was still here.
But then there was the sad thought that Jack was hurting, too. He knew what was going on, and he was lonely for his friend. And then it was then I realized how much Silver had become a part of my heart.
That was a long, long night.
At noon the next day I was placing wood in the stove when I received the cell phone call. It was Nancy, (bless her!) down there in the shed, still searching, still hopeful.
“Jeff, I see her—“ Nancy whispered. “She is behind the old freezer. I blocked off both sides, but to catch her I will need you here.”
My heart was pounding!
“No, not me”, I said. “I’ll call my neighbor, Tina. She’ll be more help. I don’t trust myself right now.”
That decision, wimpy as it sounds, might have been one of the wisest in my entire life. I knew I was way too anxious. It was one thing to be patient when all was well, but now the stakes were life and death, and I didn’t want my frantic state of mind to sabotage this. So I sat on the couch, head in hand, afraid to hope too much.
And then another call less than ten minutes later.
“We’ve got her!” We’re coming up. We have her!”
And have her they did, With Tina at one side of the freezer with a long stick, and Nancy on the other with a net, they secured this half-frozen survivor, and brought her home.
Sunrise—Part 2
It was no surprise that little Silver had lost nearly a third of her weight during those long cold days and nights in the shed. And while her weight slowly returned, the tips of her ears did not. A few days after her return I had noticed the fur was gone on her ear tips, and that they were hard and leathery. By the end of the weak they were gone. And though that was sad to see, her more rounded profile indicated a less guarded Silver.
For nearly two weeks, except for visits to her food and water, and forays to the litter box, Silver lay still on the rug directly in front of the woodstove, as if she were a heat-sponge. And during that time, I sat nearby, from time to time kneeling at her side, offering gentle strokes and comforting words that said to her ”Welcome Home”. Silver no longer required Jack’s presence to allow me to be with her.
As for Jack, though he visited her in her place by the fire, he never once lay at her side. It seemed to me that, once he knew she would recover from her ordeal, he wanted her to know that she had crossed a line with him as well. Silver had left him, and he had been deeply worried about her. He simply wanted her to know that. Or maybe he just wanted to give her space to center her scant energies and heal. Or both—after all, cats have their ways.
And there was something else, a little thing that deeply touched me. As Silver lay still by the fire, I would often look over at her from my place on the couch, as if I were subconsciously assuring myself she was still here and not out in the cold. And nearly each time I did this, she would raise her head and turn her eyes toward mine, as if assuring herself I was still here as well. I felt a bond had grown between the two of us. I suppose that bond was—and is—love.
This is not to say that when Silver fully recovered she transformed into some lap cat and joined Jack to greet me every time I came home. I would not really want that. That would be another cat, not Silver. But the sunrise flowed on, and we grew closer.
Over the next few months I noticed signs of greater trust. No matter where she might be, no matter whether Jack was at her side, each time I approached her, she stayed put. No longer did Silver’s muscles twitch and quiver at my touch as she fought her instinct to run away. Now her muscles relaxed and rippled as I ran my fingers down her back. And it was during one of those moments that I heard it! From a very deep place in a very small body, emerged Silver’s first purr. I was so startled at the volume, I pulled my hand away. She looked up at me languidly, rolled on her back, and for the very first time, my fingers stroked her belly. Suddenly, there it was again, as if she had swallowed a bullfrog on steroids, that Mother of all Purrs! Now mind you, Jack’s purr is plenty loud and manly, but it pales in comparison to Silver’s effort. I had to laugh! Queen Victoria belching at a royal dinner would have been less hilarious!
From that momentous moment on, Silver’s response to such moments shifted quickly from “I like this!” to “I REALLY like this!” to “I GOTTA have this!” And then she arrived at the point when each time I walked by she would look up, as if expecting that I stop on the way. At first, I gladly complied.
Like her time by the woodstove after her ordeal in the shed, Silver was seeking the very thing she was deprived of during her time in the wild. In this case it was not so much the warmth from a stove, but the love from a human. Of course, Jack loved her, and by now he had forgiven her, and they resumed their mad romps through the house, and their quiet times snuggling together. But this was something entirely new. Silver had been thirsty a long time without knowing it, and now here was the oasis.
I got that, and yes, this revelation brought me joy. BUT I have to admit that in the midst of all this sweetness and light, there was this one little matter that honestly ticked me off. And like that irritating little splinter you leave in too long, I was determined to finally deal with it.
It so happens that Silver, in her quest for a scruff around the ear and some strokes down her back, watches me like a hawk, and when I rise to pour a glass of wine, or bring in wood, she darts across the living room, leaps on the back of the cushy chair in the corner, and proceeds to perform an exotic dance the likes of which would make Gypsy Rose Lee blush. As she shamelessly promenades back and forth across the back of the chair, she proceeds to pre-purr, as if to lure me in.
I went along with the act for a few weeks, and then it dawned on me. All along the way, and especially now, it was I whom she expected to come to her. Not once had she ever approached me! With Jack it went both ways. Sometimes he came to my side, and I to his. Not Silver.
So now she was calling all the shots, and it was my turn to call one of my own.
The next time I rose to fetch some wood, and Silver darted to her perch, I stopped three feet from the chair. I stood there watching her gyrations just long enough for her to realize I would not move closer until she approached me first. And it worked! After a few minutes of her back and forth dance, and a few pauses to look at me quizzically, she got the idea, first extending her oversized paw toward me, then she melting into the cushion. Not until then, did I offer the strokes and scruffs.
It was a little thing, and maybe my pride entered in, but it mostly had to do with the importance of mutuality, and the sunrise took on yet another tone.
So that is where we are right now.
Silver Girl
A few weeks ago, I was visiting old performances on YouTube, and came across “Bridge over Troubled Water” by Simon and Garfunkel. I have always loved that song, and even more now that I have moved to Vermont and now reside on Bridge Street.
At the beginning of the last stanza the lyrics shift from “I’m here for you through your dark times” to “I am thankful you have crossed the bridge into brighter days”.
Here are the words:
“Sail on Silver Girl—sail on by—Your Time has come—all your dreams are on their way. See how they shine...”
The song ended, but those three lines repeated themselves in my mind all that evening—over and over. And the next morning—just at sunrise—I awoke with a smile. Silver had been a great name, but sometimes change is good.
Her “sun” has risen at last. And what the day will hold for Silver Girl only the
future will tell. Who knows? It might be that on some not-too-distant day Jack might rest on one side, Silver Girl on the other. After all, I have two hands.
And a lot of patience.
