It’s Normal for Me

Have you ever noticed how often we portray our own feelings onto others?  This disturbs me, so it must disturb you?  Or conversely, this brings me joy, so you must feel likewise?

As they so often do, my cats remind me that our perception isn’t always that of those around us. 

Reese came to us in the summer of 2012, a young scrawny black cat who simply appeared at the end of the driveway one day.  (To this day, I still believe he saw how our cats live and chose us).  He kept hanging around and one day, my kids fed him a piece of pizza.  I’ve never seen a cat inhale pizza crust before, but he did.  As we got a better look at him, we noticed what looked like purple thread on one of his eyes – the eye that didn’t seem to open.  You can probably follow the next bit without effort – Reese came into our home, had the sutures removed from his eye, and spent his next years with us proving that he was a good boy and we could keep him.  He was definitely missing his left eye, but it’s certainly not something that bothered him.

An amazing hunter, Reese brought us squirrels, chipmunks, and some unidentified prey.  (I still believe he was contributing to the family’s diet in his own way).  There wasn’t much he couldn’t hunt.  He climbed onto the roof, and got himself down without issue.  He kept that one eye open and monitored what went on – just in case “security” was needed.  His full sleeping was done when he knew he was in a safe place (typically, on me) and he fully relaxed into it.  When Reese passed on from a heart attack in December 2016, he left a gaping hole as all cats do – a tough-looking and unique boy who was incredibly loving and wonderful.

Reese never knew he was missing an eye.  His prey certainly had no idea of this disadvantage and there wasn’t much that got by him.  To him, it was simply part of who he was.

This week, Roxy (of The Invisible Cat fame) required surgery to remove a rapidly growing lump on her tail.  As vets (and human doctors) do with these things, an area around around the lump was also removed in order to minimize the likelihood of any remaining problem cells in the area.  For Roxy – and her tail – this translates to less tail.  About half.  Now if you’ve checked out Roxy’s pictures in previous posts, you’ll know that Roxy is a long-haired cat, so her tail gains inches just by virtue of these lovely fluffs.  I love Roxy’s tail.  It’s fluffy and plumey and she swishes it around as though she’s royalty (she is). 

As with most surgical areas, though, Roxy’s tail was prepared for surgery by shaving around the area to be addressed.  The surgery went smoothly and the vet was able to save about half of her tail as hoped.  But without the extended fur decorating the end of her tail, it looks SO much shorter than it did when I dropped her off!  My heart just bleeds for her.  (not literally)

Here’s the funny – or terrific – thing about this, though.  While Roxy is rather patchy from this and a few other surgical excisions which occurred at the same time, she’s completely unbothered by it.  The fact that she has shaved patches in her ruff, on her hip, and half a tail completely escapes her.  Her sole concern is the lack of kibble (due to removal of a few teeth) for a few days, which restricts her to wet food doled out by the “mean mommy who doesn’t feed adequately”.  

I’m extremely bothered by Roxy’s missing half-tail, and her shaved and stitched bits.  She is not.  At all. 

There are so many lessons here.  First, projecting our feelings onto others doesn’t work well.  We all feel and perceive things differently – or as I like to say, through the lens of our own experience.  This is also an important lesson in looking at those in whom we perceive a disability, whether it’s physical, mental, emotional, or something else.  It may bother you (or me).  The person you’re looking at may not notice or be bothered by this at all.  Be kind.  Let it go.  Enjoy life!