Mew, my 9-year-old black cat, has a new habit.
She crouches down on the floor and licks a dime-sized spot of the area rug in my tiny office. Her sandpaper tongue brushes up against the wool in short, repetitive strokes: fwup, fwup, fwup, fwup, inches away from the feet of my chair.
She licks for ten minutes at a time minimum. Once she started before I got on an hour-long call, and was still at it when I was finished.
The first time this licking happened, I thought she might be taking advantage of a coffee spill. It made sense that even a tiny drop of cream would drive her to obsession. I cleaned the spot with a pet-safe solution, but she went right back at it a couple of days later. She returns to the exact same itty-bitty section of the rug every time.
Fwup, fwup, fwup, fwup. Fwup, fwup, fwup, fwup. The sound is abrasive and crazy-making. I can hear it right now as I type.
And yet, instead of stopping her, I watch. I watch myself, too, the way I keep responding to this peculiar, exasperating new habit of hers with effervescent love.
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We are Mew’s fifth owners (that I know of—it’s not clear where Mew was her first year.) When she first came to us three and a half years ago, she wasn’t particularly nice. I’d never had a cat before, but I suspected the majority of felines out there were nicer than Mew. Even so, I adored her instantly and ferociously.
She quickly returned my affection by following me around the house the way a puppy might. I’d glimpse her across the room sometimes, her yellow-green eyes softly looking my way as if in sweet disbelief. But she also got in my face on the daily (literally) and hissed with great force (bleh-stinky) and even on occasion scratch my nose or cheek to the point of bleeding (ouch!)
“Nice” was most definitely not one of Mew’s core values.
As time went on, and the more I loved her despite her not giving a lick about niceties (sorry, bad pun), the more I realized something: just how unnecessary it is to file off your less pleasant, not socially desirable, even downright ugly and unlikable traits to receive genuine affection.
She doesn’t adhere to likability standards to be lovable. She just is.
Despite her rocky history with humans and paying a steep price to have long-term safety and security, Mew lets her whole self be. I’m sure she always has.
I, in return, get the privilege of knowing and loving her whole self.
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Now, as Mew slinks off the rug (THANK GOD) to go curl up on her favorite blanket, I’m asking myself whether “nice” was ever a core value for me, or if being “nice” is how I’ve rationalized the way I hide what I fear people will poo-poo or react to with disgust.
And I imagine myself with the courage to let go of “nice,” and other masks I wear like “put together” and “knows what she’s doing” and “strong.” If I let go of hiding, then what?
You’re bound to hear me go fwup, fwup, fwup, fwup. You’ll sometime see my tonsils and get a whiff of my stinky breath. You might incur a scratch now and then. Oof.
But please tell me. Is that such a terrible thing?
If you knew your whole self could be loved the way Mew is, would you release your hiding to receive it?
