It’s not a state-secret that I like cats. But I LOVE my cats.
I have some dear friends who do not like cats. One doesn’t like animals, period. A second has always had a dog and just doesn’t care for cats. A third loves dogs, but only English bulldogs for some reason, and cats are “aloof to the point of being appalling,” so sayeth he. A fourth professes to like cats a little, but is allergic.
I don’t have to explain my admiration for domestic felines to avowed cat-fanciers. But I do find myself justifying my admiration of the species to many of my friends. Why do I like cats? They’re beautiful, graceful, smell good, and, what can I say-- are self-cleaning. Most admirable.
Why do I LOVE mine?
Because in addition to all the above, I take care of them.
It was a revelation to discover that at the root of abiding love is the experience of taking care of the beloved. Not what they did for me, but what I did for them.
That explains a lot. We take care of young and very old humans in diapers. We pick up after them and let them scream at us. And then, when they have worn us out, we love them even more.
It isn’t what is most glorious or glamorous; it’s the care they made us extend.
For once, I have some insight into the divine love for creation.
And before I get too sappy and waaaay too lofty here, I’m heading to clean the litter box.