A streetcat named Stanley

The power of resilience should not be underestimated.

I’ve only known Stanley a week now. He’s in a room downstairs, separated from Stella by only a wall. He’s talking to her, though. She’s ignoring him, for the most part, but sometimes I see the curiosity coming through, despite her commitment to being unflappable. Stella, dear … sometimes, we must flap.

Stanley loves people way more than he should … and way, way more than I do. He has a firm head with tiny little ears, giant paws that look almost like toes, and thick black fur strangely similar to my own hair, making it abundantly clear that we are related.

We got Stanley from our neighbor, who rescues cats. We weren’t supposed to get another animal, but I’m working on a news story about our city animal shelter and that assignment has required me to visit the shelter. And though Stanley isn’t from the city shelter, I met this other little kitty there who I wanted to foster, but by the time I inquired about her, I was told she was already adopted.

I mentioned this story to my neighbor, who then opened her trench coat only to display dozens of cats! I mean, that’s kind of how it happened.

We’re only fostering Stanley for now. We haven’t officially introduced him to Stella yet, though that will happen very soon. Cats are weird. Not as weird as humans, but weird. They have their own magical cat way of communicating and figuring shit out, whereas humans, more often than not, mess it all up.

They messed it up for Stanley. No one but him knows the full scope of his origin story, but it’s clear that he has been around humans at some point or another; he loves love. He loves pets and attention and and food and NPR. Also just like me. (OK, truthfully, I have no idea if he likes NPR, but it’s what’s on in his room, so I sure hope he’s at least a little progressive.)

And then he was dumped, put out on the street to fend for himself. And pretty soon, he was beaten up by some other animals, then taken in by angel rescuers, only to wind up in my neighbor’s trench coat. And now he’s here, downstairs. Waiting to meet the so-called unflappable cat on the other side of the wall.

Somehow, we now have six animals: four dogs, Stella cat, and now, Stanley. (Hopefully, by now, you’ve figured out why he’s named Stanley. A Streetcar Named Desire. Yep.) Six animals! That’s a lot of cute little butts. And paws. And sounds. And medical bills. (Those are not so cute.)

I’ve learned so much from my animals. As a child, my goldfish, Debbie Gibson (yep), taught me about empathy (we wound up giving her to my mom’s friend for her pond so that Debbie could enjoy her life, dammit). My childhood cat, Rocky, taught me about true friendship.

Flash-forward a bunch more animal companions, and sweet Stanley, who I’ve only known for a week somehow, has taught me about the resilience of the spirit. Despite all the hardships he’s faced, Stanley still chooses love. He still reaches out for affection and companionship, even when he has every reason to be wary and distrustful. In his tiny, black-furred body lies a heart that hasn’t given up on humans, even when humans have failed him. He reminds me every day that no matter how tough things get, there’s always room for a little bit of hope.

He has alsonreminded me that sometimes, you need to bite a little, just to be taken seriously.

Stanley's unwavering capacity for love has shown me that healing is possible and that even in a world full of disappointments, we can choose to offer a hand to those in need ... or, in Stanley’s case, a paw.

xo,

jazz