The Things Cats Stir Up

The Cat Who Wouldn’t Come Back to the Den

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Cats can be exceedingly effective coaches. I imagine any animal you have a close relationship with can be as well, but cats, with their unpredictable nature, take it to another level.

Yesterday, Penny reminded me how cats can act as both compass and coach: pointing straight at emotional wounds we carry unconsciously, and then offering the exact conditions needed to work with them.

I am not speaking of how Penny ensures I go for a walk every day, or how my back muscles grow stronger every time I pick up Taffy for a cuddle.

This week it all started with a vet visit in my den. My den is essentially a converted garage which I turned into a space for me and Penny alone. No one else gets to enter without an express invitation.

When my parents moved in, on my invitation, I had a lot of trouble adjusting from living alone to having people in my space. If you didn’t catch Penny’s opinion of “the invaders,” the cats they brought with them, you can read it here.

So I transformed the garage into a peaceful, regenerative space for both of us. For me: work, crafts, naps, and quiet. For Penny: mostly naps and snacks.

Anyway, this week was the dreaded week of the year: the annual vaccines. Normally I take Penny into the vet for these due to an unfortunate previous incident, but when I tried, she disappeared like only a telepathic cat can. We missed the appointment. That left only one option: having the vet vaccinate her at home, right before vaccinating “the invaders”.

That meant locking her into the den during the unnecessarily long wait before the vet arrived (he got lost), and then watching her spiral into panic and rip my arm to bloody shreds until the simple shot was given and she was allowed to make her escape through the nearest window.

The whole thing was distressing for both of us, but afterward I realized I was carrying far more than the event itself. My arms still carry the scratches, but worse than that was the feeling of betrayal and loss of trust. I felt awful.

I had done what any responsible cat mother would do, but although we had gone for a walk since, Penny had not returned to the den. I felt guilty and abandoned, both.

And this is where the coaching came in. The feelings were far too big for what had actually happened. They couldn’t possibly belong only to this event. So I asked myself: when have I felt these feelings before, in a different setting?

I won’t go into the details, but I recognized a familiar pattern and the unsupportive belief beneath it. I could see how both had shaped similar nervous system reactions in other relationships in the past.

And so the first half was done. I was now conscious of the pattern. Well done, Penny.

The second half is still to come. Right now, I have the perfect opportunity to practice a different response.

To feel what is there, allow it, and let it pass without scrambling to fix anything or change the circumstances. Because Penny is a cat, and nothing I do is likely to speed up her recovery time. And because Penny is a coach, and no doubt will behave in a way that triggers me once again.

Wouldn’t it be just like a cat if, once my feelings settle and I find a better way forward, she changes her approach too?

And as if on cue, not long after I wrote all this, Penny walked back into the den and settled for an afternoon nap as though nothing had happened.