He has a new name: Titodon felinensis.
First because of his super power. He lift everything and ram onto all things and sweep things off with one swift movement.
Second because of his size. He is two years old domestic cat with the size of six months old Maine Coon. Twice as big as corgi, as tall and stocky as Bulldog puppy.
Third because he is Tito and he is a feline.
Fourth and the most important, because at two years old, his heart and mind, his peace, wisdom, serenity, is way ancient than the dinosaur.
He lift everything and ram onto all things and sweep things off with one swift movement; and he done all that with belly so big, his hind legs bent down when he walks. After my kitty ambulance vet extracted two liters (4.2 pint/0.52 gallon) from that belly, he is even stronger.
It is the reason I didn’t let him out of his carrier immediately. I let him stay inside, watching the life gone by at the shelter while I went about my day. When he was ready, he meow once, and I open the cover of his basket. He jumped out gracefully, give everyone his dignified look, and straight to the porcelain bowl to have a sip.
He used my litter box immediately, then he disappear until the next feeding time. I didn’t know where he is, but he is always by my foot when I call his name.
From his hermitage on the table behind boxes of litter sand I haven’t got the chance to unload, he watch the world unfold. He lets the babies sat by him, he let everyone else passed. If he is eating (and he eats double the size of everyone else) and someone else nudge him, he’d give his meal away, and sat by my foot for himself.
If Ginger’s mama, with the same FIP as his, tried to take his meal by force, he’d give her the look that could kill, and it will put her, the fiercest of all, back to where she belongs. But then he will sit, looking at Ginger’s mama, with her round eyes, and sulky look, and then he will turn around, and left his food for her to enjoy.
Sometimes, I am running late, and while the rest of the cattery deliver torture and punishment, he will be sitting silently, watching me toil in my atonement. When I wash my hand and walk straight back into the house, he will know that there will always a fresh bowl for him, just what he needs, when he needs it, all for himself.
Slowly, all the fluid that will weigh him down will come back, and one day, there will be another visit to the vet, another half a gallon of fluid extracted, and a down time about a week or many. Someday, it all will drown him to the end.
But the patience with which he endures his trial, the silence with which he spend his days, and the serenity with which he embraces his fate, echoes loudly than the mountain wind in my sleepless night.
He can no longer jump around, so he walked around. He can no longer climb the roof, so just the table. He can’t be hopping under the rain, so just the dewy breeze. He may no longer eat garbage, chew on discarded fish intestine, or crunch on rotten squid, he found pleasure in munching the best dry food that smells like gourmet cuisine along the small humming sound of his new mistress, bustling like bee cleaning everything.
He can’t run around like the tigers or lions in the mountain. He can’t be the cheetah, the jaguar, the panther. He is now, until the end, will only be house cat.
If you can only crawl, then start crawling.
So he let me carry him, and he can still see the world, and he can still be on top.
When I put him back down, from our walk with nightly birds, It’s my turn.
I clean the house in silence, I pick up all the craps scattered all over the house in silence, I went out the cattery and flush every scum in silence. I wash every bowl in silence. I scooped litter box, fold the laundry, hang the new one, push the next batch into the washer. I fill in the bucket with spring water, I turn off the aquarium lamp. I pulled out frozen food from the freezer, lined them up on a spread of newspaper for tomorrow, fill in the water tub to the brim.
I look at Tito, laying down on his favorite table, on his mountain, watching the world goes round, watching me go round.
I can slowly hear it. The music that plays not in the notes, but in the silence between them. The great strength that flows from within, the peace that will never be betrayed by meows, by thoughts, by scratches, by cats kicking everything off the counter.
When I am done, it’s dawn. Tito is sleeping, the cats are sleeping. I unlock the front door with the smallest click, and slip outside, to the porch, on my own.
I am tired, I am out of breath, I am battered, crashed, and burned. Soon after the sun rise I will be back around them: what the cats demand, what the neighbors whisper, what my employer comments, what the strangers say. My world will go round, faster than ever.
But just for that moment, in the darkest before dawn, the time stop flying, the earth stop rotating, the clock stop ticking. Only my breath, only my heartbeat, only my soul refilling all the things its been deprived all day long, the sleep that nourishes wisdom.
When the first rooster crows, I slipped back inside, and found Tito looking at me. I can see him smile, I know I smile.
Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation.
If you can only crawl, then start crawling.
Silence is the language of God, all else is poor translation
(Jalāl ad-Dīn Muhammad Rūmī, was a 13th-century Persian Sunni Muslim poet, jurist, Islamic scholar, theologian, and Sufi mystic. Born in September 30, 1207 Died on December 17, 1273 in Konya, Turkey)
The music is not in the notes, but in the silence in between
(Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, baptised as Johannes Chrysostomus Wolfgangus Theophilus Mozart, was a prolific and influential composer of the Classical era. Born in Salzburg, he showed prodigious ability from his earliest childhood. Born on January 27, 1756 in Getreidegasse, Salzburg, Austria. Died on December 5, 1791 in Vienna, Austria)
Silence is a source of great strength
(Laozi was an ancient Chinese philosopher and writer. He is known as the reputed author of the Tao Te Ching, the founder of philosophical Taoism, and a deity in religious Taoism and traditional Chinese religions. Born 604 BC in Henan, China. Died 531 BC in China)
Silence is a true friend who never betrays
(Confucius, born as Kong Qiu, was a Chinese teacher, editor, politician, and philosopher of the Spring and Autumn period of Chinese history. Born on September 28, 551 BC in Lu county, China. Died on 479 BC in Lu county, China)
Silence is the sleep that nourishes wisdom
(Francis Bacon, 1st Viscount St Alban, PC KC was an English philosopher, statesman, scientist, jurist, orator, and author. He served both as Attorney General and as Lord Chancellor of England. Born on January 22, 1561 in Strand, London, United Kingdom. Died on April 9, 1626 in Highgate, United Kingdom)