Fyrelyte
August 26, 2024
My cat missed me. I’ve had cats most my life, and when I’ve been away, my neglect is usually repaid with a day or two of aloofness. Not with Fyrelyte.
She scurried up the staircase ahead of me, anxious to cuddle and make biscuits. She purred and rubbed up against my legs as I set the alarm and took my meds. I went to turn off the light, and up into bed she went, looking at me with an expression that could only mean, “Well?”
Fyrelyre is a tortie. My friend, Dani, fosters kittens for a rescue shelter in West Virginia. My previous cat, Ruby June, had been gone for almost two years, so it was finally time for another. I drove to Morgantown one May day and picked up Fyrelyte (who was “Firelight” then) and another rescue, Theo. When I returned home, Theo made a beeline to the basement, into the crawl space, and that’s where he stayed for two months. In July, I saw him upstairs and closed the basement door. Slowly, I trapped him to the office and upstairs, then upstairs, then the stairwell. I caught him, caged him, and took him back to Dani. Upon seeing Dani, he nuzzled her, then plopped down, rolled, and exposed his belly to her. He was home.
I think Fyrelyte hid for a day, but quickly adjusted, never fearing the other cats, Bruno and Harry, who were a bit confused with this new cat. They mostly ignored her while she made it clear that she was to belong to me.
Every evening, she’s on my lap the minute my butt hits the recliner. That’s where she stays. In bed, she lays near my head, positioning herself with maximum contact. Then the kneading starts. We never clip cats’ nails. There’s always something for them to scratch to dull them a bit. Even Fyrelyte scratches the sawhorse that supports my worktable. But somehow, her claws are still razor sharp. Her preferred kneading places are my chin and neck. I keep the room cool so I can wear heavier shirts to avoid clawmarks. Like that even matters.
I’m not allowed to use my phone or iPad once in bed. She purposefully puts herself between me and the device, and if I move, she moves. If I hold it up, she’ll extend a paw, claws barely out, admonishing me to bring my arms back to the bed. When I scratch her head, she turns it and starts to bite my fingers. Never hard, just enough to claim her territory. Like all cats, when Fyrelyte has had enough, she takes off for a while. I fall asleep, only to find she’s curled up between my legs, or near my head, or little spooning me.
The right cat replaced Ruby June. Ruby June was the only thing that ever fully belonged to me. I had her for fourteen years, and she behaved exactly as Fyrelyte does now. And I can’t be happier that I’m her person.
