He relished in unabashed authenticity. It’s also how JC loved you – perfectly un-fairytale-like and imperfectly human. It felt real in every sense, with no traces of conditioning, transactionality, or reciprocity for reciprocity’s sake. He gave because he wanted to. Took when he needed to. Reminded you of life’s priorities when you had forgotten them. No sugar-coating or repressing. He was just a cat – as most humans would put it – but to me he was a person with more depth and presence than many humans I’ve known. He let you into his world, with wide eyes and acknowledging meows, chrips, and purrs.
He didn’t care much for politeness and good behaviour. To him, they were inauthentic and wasteful of time and opportunity. I agreed, and thanked his sagely feistiness those few times I mindlessly addressed him as just a cat. He cared for showing you how he felt and what he wanted, with no second-guessing or reservations. JC was an empath, checking in every few minutes by reading your eyes – their lines, tension, shape. He knew the mood you were in, even if you weren’t admitting it to yourself. Stoicism didn’t fool him – he knew me for the emotional person that I am, and that emotionality is also where him and I connected: perfectly excitable when called for, and equally frustrated when our freedom-flapping wings got clipped.
Some people meditate to recenter and regain composure. I do too, except my meditation now includes a mental image of JC, which reminds me of the kind of relationships I wish to forge with others, and myself.