Someone – perhaps The Pedant, or maybe it was just some other cynical, shit-disturbing prick – once told me that Bastardcat only loves me because I feed him.
Well, yeah, I’m not stupid; I know my cat loves me because I provide for him and not, say, for my sense of humour or my plucky underdog vibe or the way I know how to correctly use an apostrophe.
But what you have to ask yourself is: why do people act like cat-love is a trivial thing?
Some nights, Bastardcat curls up under the covers with me and we fall asleep together. He purrs the entire time – when he finally dozes off the purring stops, but all I have to do is kiss him or say his name and his little cat engine revs right up again. His face, at these times, is a portrait of pure bliss. I am the Great Provider – I am the one who keeps him fed and warm and safe and comfortable – and he associates my presence with that warmth, safety and comfort. And so he curls up against me, enveloped in my body’s heat and scent, and all is right with the world. Bastardcat’s love is not inferior; it’s not a consolation prize. It’s actually pretty awesome.
I love The Bunny. I’m not in love with him; that, to me, is a transcendent meshing of minds that leaves both people feeling enraptured and inspired. The Bunny is sweet and smart but sometimes (still! After six months!) we don’t seem to know what to say to each other. Our conversations don’t take flight.
But he makes me food and gives me orgasms and when I’m so stressed out I can barely function, he caresses me back to life again. On occasion I fall asleep curled up against The Bunny, enveloped in his heat and scent, and on those occasions all is right with the world.
It’s cat-love. And that’s enough.