Timing

I found him in a park. It was late and he could barely see the paws he was stumbling over. I scour the park, looking for his kind. No family to be found. I hold him up to my face. “What shall I name him?” I asked myself. Instant squeals and nibbles. He’s fierce. I’ve got it. Spyro, the little dragon from the video game. He reacts to it, and quickly learns that it’s his. As if his own mother named him the same when he was born.

I take him home, my new, 8-week-old, flea ridden kitten. The reason why I was strolling through the park in the first place was because I was trying to figure out how I’d survive the next few days, having just gotten fired. I’ll never forget. $46.13, including the 3 quarters I fished out of the fountain on the walk home with Spyro. I’m back to my old ways, like I’m in high school, only now I’m stealing tins of kitten food and not shopping carts of liquor. They’re out of their best sellers, chicken and turkey, I hope he likes fish.

I soon learned it didn’t matter what I put in front of him. If it was edible, he was eating it. I was never a cat person, in fact they annoyed me. I still don’t think I am, but I felt a bond. This animal and I felt too alike. Like owner like pet became more like father like son. I kept the free food going, but I couldn’t get around the vet fees. And I just couldn’t pawn him off, no matter how much my wallet would cry to me. The unemployment cheques and fast-food coupons kept me afloat for a little while. I’d eventually work 12 hour days and make enough to get by with rent, but I’d be so occupied and tired, that the only time we’d spend together would be his meals before and after bed.

Some days I’d come home, cupboard doors swung open, chips and crackers disarrayed the floor and carpets. On these longer days, I’d sometimes worry that he’d rip his own tail off in impatience and eat it for sustenance. I realized that I’d think more about him, lonely at home, than I could actually be with him. Months would go by and he’d get unrecognizably bigger. This went on for a year.

And here we are now. I recently get a stable remote job, with a generous income. And Spyro’s learned how to open doors. Almost an exact year to the day I found him, he opens the unlocked front door, and is off. I don’t ever leave the door unlocked. If anything, I’ve only been more wary since noticing he was able to operate a door knob. Was I giving him an out? All this trouble, when I could’ve left him at the animal shelter, the night I found him. I couldn’t bring myself to put up ‘lost cat’ flyers. Caring when I wasn’t ready to, and suddenly now ready to be caring. But it didn’t matter, it didn’t align. Him heading back out there felt right though. Back outside, instead of being cooped in a box, just as lonely as he was the day I found him. No hard feelings, I’d flee too.

Enjoy yourself Spyro, maybe I’ll see you again at the park someday.