Yesterday, a clear blue sky, warm with just a slight breeze. A perfect late summer day.
This morning, overcast, a dampness in the air, and chilly, too, the wind rattling treetops, leaves falling even before they've changed colors.
Summer is over, with its punishing heat and unexpected, unwanted farewells. Autumn has arrived, the season of quiet melancholy.
Looks like a perfect day to wallow in sadness, but for one thing, one small joy. Last night, as I tossed and turned, unable once again to sleep, Delmar appeared at the foot of the bed.
The thing about Delmar is, he's a largely unremarkable cat. His body is rangy, his face rather ordinary, and he seldom gives or asks for affection. He could be a typical Steve Buscemi character, or perhaps the husband Billy Green Bush so memorably played in Alice Doesn't Live Here Anymore--not a bad guy, but somehow not able to connect with his family.
When Delmar hops on the bed, he stays at the far end, there but not there, and if I reach for him, he skitters away. This time, though, he came closer, and put a paw on my shoulder, and slowly moved it down to my elbow. Then he did it again. And again.
He was petting me.
Science claims cats are lower life forms, they lack what we call souls. They may feels a sense of devotion to those who feed and shelter them, but they certainly are not capable of human emotions.
But what Del showed me was an expression of love so pure, the exact thing I needed at that moment, a comfort as profoundly offered and accepted as any I have ever known. I wanted to hold him, to hug him and never stop, but Del doesn't like hugs. Instead, with him still beside me, I had the best night of sleep I've had in such a long time.
