French Pressed

There is a lot you can learn from a cat.

My sister and I live together and, in our apartment, curled into the corner of a windowsill or tucked beneath the bed, dwells a shy tabby named Ginger. Yes, he is orange, and yes, he is the newest and most beloved addition to our home. We kept the name he came with and sometimes soften it into Gin, or GinGin.

He is five. When he arrived, fear clung to him like a second skin. He’d run from us and only eat when we were absent from the room.

He had been confined in a bathroom for a year. Isolated. Abused. The tip of his tail is still knotted from a break that never healed right. By the time he came to us, passed through hands that tried to help, he was anxious and watchful, unsure of every movement, every sound.

We were not prepared for how much pain can follow something home.

He came with worms and fleas and patches of missing fur. And the first night, with doors left open so he would not feel trapped or confined, he peed everywhere. Every room. Carpets, couch cushions, beds, the closet… The sharp smell was inescapable, settling into headaches and congestion. (In hindsight, we should have introduced him slowly to each room).

We took him to the vet, and attempted to clean the carpets, bed, and couches.

He came home, swaying and dopey, but freed from fleas and worms, and still ran from any hint of footsteps, slipping under the couch, under the dresser, beneath the bed… It would take thirty minutes of soft voices and stillness just to coax him into view.

But when he finally started coming out, he leaned into our hands. Sat beside us. And he began following us from room to room like a shadow that had decided to stay.

We had a choice to make.

The vet bills were piling up and he still had to be neutered. And the cat pee was resistant to our cleaning efforts. 

We could hire professional cleaners for the apartment, cut our losses, and take him to a shelter. Or we could take him to the vet again, hire cleaners, risk it… stay.

We did not have much money, and the unexpected costs were piling up.

But there he was, tail swishing, green eyes wide, beginning, slowly, to trust. A small body learning that a hand could reach without hurting. That a voice could be gentle. That a home might not disappear.

We kept him.

And something softened, settled.

He stopped hiding so long. Started sleeping closer. Learned the rhythm of our footsteps. The sound of our call. He has not peed since. He curls beside us now, though at night he still slips beneath the bed, where it feels safer. Loud and unexpected noises startle him. Being alone unsettles him.

But he stays. And so do we.

He follows us from room to room, our little shadow, his pattering steps close behind. He nuzzles our hands without flinching and burrows into our laps. He waits at the door. He trusts.

Love tempering fear.

And watching him, you start to wonder what might happen if we did this for each other.

If we stayed when things were messy.

If we did not keep score.

If we soothed and reassured.

If we chose patience over retreat.

If we worked to rebuild.

If we responded with consistency, grace, and gentleness when learning the language of someone else’s scars.

If we believed healing was possible.

What might happen if we didn’t give up on one another?