The Conversation That Arises Out of Everything

When a conversation begins in our mind, what do we do? When we respond to such a conversation by just listening, wondering, then letting it go, it usually passes. When we talk back, or hold onto it, the conversation continues. Even if we step back from it for a while, it carries on someplace in us. What we feed, lives.

A feral cat has lived in our neighborhood for at least 6 months. For months, he kept coming to our house. He would show up at different doors of our home and call to us. He would hang out with one of our cats sometimes, or at least not get in a fight. But if we’d try to get close to him, or even open the door when he was there, he’d run quickly away. He’d never let us close.

Then one day, my wife gave it food, despite knowing the likely consequences. It was just too painful to hear him cry or see his need. Then a few days later, she did it again. The cat appeared more often but still ran when we opened a door and roamed without us seeing him for hours or days. Then my wife did it again. And then every day. Then twice a day. Then he let her touch him. Then he let me pet him. And now? Now he acts like he’s ours. Now he follows us around or hangs out by the front door on our deck, looks in the kitchen window with pleading eyes, and dreams of us taking him in.

It’s the same with the content of our mind. What we feed becomes us, or “ours.”

The painful follow-up with the cat is that we took him to the ASPCA, who vaccinated and neutered him, but wouldn’t take him in for adoption; they were too full. We next took him to our vet, for tests and further treatment. It turns out he has feline AIDS. Now, we must figure out what to do next. We have two other cats, who are indoor-outdoor. Even though feline AIDS is not easily transmissible, and humans are safe from it, there’s still a chance he might infect our other pets. In fact, our vet said that if we took in the stray, infection would be inevitable. Plus, he would need to live only indoors so he doesn’t spread the disease or get injured himself.

He must’ve had a home, once. Did they kick him out of their home and cut him from their heart? Or did they just run out of money to care for him? I wonder if they even knew he was sick and were afraid of, or didn’t want to face, a cat with AIDS?

What we try to ignore or cut from our hearts stays with us. The cat might be physically gone for this person. But the memory? The pain? The guilt? Cutting out is just another and more harmful form of feeding. It’s feeding what psychologist Carl Jung called our shadow, the part of our self that we deny, won’t or can’t acknowledge and try to project onto others but carry with us as a weight. To let go proficiently, we must do it with awareness, care, compassion, even love. What we feed in us becomes us.

I have to say that hearing that the cat had AIDS hurt so much. We’re just getting to know him and love how he looks at us and becomes ecstatic when we pet or sit with him. So, it was unbelievable when the vet told us he was sick. Maybe such news is always unbelievable, no matter who gets it or what form it comes in. So many of us get even worse news. Like with Elizabeth Kubler-Ross’ state of denial, the first stage of grief⎼ we don’t want to believe it.

We’re grieving. For now, he lives on our deck in a house we made for him out of an outdoor table, waterproof tarp, and fitted with a cat bed, waiting for us to figure out what to do next.

We started making calls, to vet hospitals, adoption agencies, to other local groups. Hopefully, we’ll find him a good home or a way to keep him. Helping him find a home also helps us be at home in ourselves.

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This Post is republished on Medium.

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