This morning, I found myself looking at photos of our cat from when he was a kitten. Tiny, wrecked, barely holding on. No bigger than the size of my hand.
With crusted eyes and a body so fragile, we weren’t sure he’d make it.

Jay was the one who found him, right near our front door. I was away for work when he called me, crying, saying the kitten who used to play outside our steps had been hit. He brought him to the vet. I waited for news.

Of the two of us, Jay has always been the more natural caregiver. He’s a doctor, after all.
I watched him syringe-feed the kitten with steady hands, clean his wounds, wrap him in old towels to keep him warm. I did what I could, awkwardly at first. watching, learning. I had never cared for something so delicate before. But this small, injured creature had chosen us. And we chose him back.

Jay named him Garbage - because that’s where he found him, and because that’s Jay for you. 

But we lovingly call him many names: Baby G, Garbs, Garbadour, Garbanzos, Meows, Meowser (saying the ‘s’ with a slight lisp), Meowser-doo.

He’s become part of our life story. In fact, part of our love story. Loving him, together, has been its own kind of intimacy. A quiet, shared tenderness that lives in the mundane: in morning feeding routines, vet visits, and the way we both pause when he does something silly and unexpected.

He’s been with us for over a year now, and I thought of writing something for him / about him / because of him. Our little feral Baby G. 

Just Another Creature (written 05-24-25)

Every morning, without thinking,

I clean your bowl, prepare your food:

chicken shreds, a handful of pellets.

An act of devotion

for a presence I never expected.

What a luxury it is to watch you eat.

Most days, you spend hours at the window,

just watching birds - 

yellow-breasted, gathering twigs,

resting, feeding, and flying off.

That alone seems enough

to fill an afternoon.

Then, a nap.

Another worthwhile endeavor.

You are not bothered by deadlines,

or to-do lists,

or unread emails.

You carry no urgency,

only presence.

And still, you live fully.

We thought we wanted a quiet, minimalist home. But here we are: 

toys scattered, a scratch pad worn thin,

a litter box in our otherwise “aesthetic” living room.

A little life exploring quiet corners when we’re not looking.

You made our home something lived in.

Quietly, but fully, alive.

Some mornings, before the day pulls me under,

I try to stand by the window, like you do,

watching the birds with intent,

wondering what it is you see.

They gather twigs,

preen their feathers,

poke at small fruits,

rest in the shade.

They, too, have things to do—

and those things matter too.

Not more or less than mine.

Just different.

I suppose we all make meaning in our own ways.

You, by watching the birds.

The birds, by building their nests.

And me, by trying to notice these small things,

and making a life around them.

Loving, and living do not need to be loud.

To have an animal both soft and feral

choose to live close to me

reminds me that I, too, am animal.

Not separate from nature.

Not any better than it.

Just another creature,

trying to find a warm spot in the sun.