Fun fact: Cats don’t actually “sharpen” their claws. When they scratch on furniture, they are stripping away worn layers from the claw to reveal a fresh layer.
“Since this is such a beautiful day and it’s Saturday,” Jerry said, reaching for the hairdryer, “why don’t you fix a picnic lunch while I run a few errands, and then we can drive up into the mountains? Maybe toss our lines in the lake and catch a few fish for dinner?”
As my husband and I planned our day, our large tuxedo cat, El Gato Gordo, purred softly in my arms, gazing lazily at the lush green trees through our upstairs master bath window.
When Jerry turned on the dryer, Gato bolted in panic. In his hurry to escape, Gato’s claws ripped the soft flesh on the underside of my lower left arm. The cut was deep and bled profusely. After stopping the bleeding and inspecting it closely, we decided no stitches were required. Jerry helped me treat and dress the wound while I insisted no amount of discomfort would interfere with our day’s plans. He left, and I began searching for Gato.
“Gato!” I called, several times, but there was no answer. Since cats are so intelligent and sensitive to human emotions, I wondered if perhaps he felt my shock at being scratched and feared I was unhappy with him.
Finally, I found him huddling beneath the stairwell, wide-eyed and trembling. I picked him up gently, favoring my bandaged arm. As I held Gato close, I felt the wild thumping of his heart. Kissing him on the head, I whispered, “It’s okay, sweetheart. It was just an accident. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me.” I sat on the stairs holding and stroking him in my lap until he relaxed. Finally satisfied that he was over his trauma, I released him and started preparing for our afternoon outing.
I dashed to the store for some chips and dip, and while waiting in the checkout line I met the husband of a neighbor who lived at the end of our street.
“What happened to your arm?” he asked, noting the bandage.
After I explained, he responded with raised brow, “I tell you one thing, if that had happened to me, that would be one dead cat!”
Horrified, I said, “It was an accident! He didn’t deliberately hurt me — he was just frightened.”
“I don’t care whether it was an accident or not, I’d get rid of that cat!”
Driving home, I thought angrily, “Well, it’s obvious he’s no cat lover!”
Several weeks later, the wound was completely healed, but in its place was a prominent white curved scar — almost three inches in length.
Early one morning as Jerry and I sat enjoying our freshly ground vanilla-nut coffee, he glanced at my arm and said, “I’m so sorry, honey. Maybe the scar will fade with time, and you won’t even be able to see it.”
I surprised him with my response. “I hope it never goes away! I want to always have this scar — as a reminder.”
“Why on earth would you want to remember that Gato scratched you? Are you mad at him?” he asked, eyes wide. Gato, dozing in the corner, raised his head at hearing his name.
“Of course not!” I responded, blowing Gato a kiss.
Then I related the comments made by our neighbor’s husband and how it got me to thinking.
“Seeing this scar will remind me that, yes, I suffered a minor injury, but it wasn’t about me — it was about Gato and what prompted his action. Gato would never deliberately hurt me. His lashing out at me was a reaction — not a malicious intent — because he was suddenly frightened and felt threatened. People can do the same.”
I refreshed my cup, inhaling its sweet aroma. After adding more half-and-half with sweetener, I took another bite of my cinnamon roll.
“How so?” Jerry asked, eyeing the last doughnut on the plate.
“Cutting remarks can sometimes be made by those closest to us — someone we trust and feel safe with — and I want to remember that. Shouldn’t a friend be given the same compassionate understanding as a pet? Just as I wouldn’t think of getting rid of Gato because he hurt me, neither should I immediately react by getting rid of a friend.”
Jerry nodded as he gave in and took the doughnut.
“Rather than taking offense,” I continued, “wouldn’t it be better to learn what prompted their out-of-character action? Maybe their response was due to something totally unrelated to us, and they simply reacted out of fear, insecurity or pent-up frustration — by lashing out at whoever was the nearest.”
Setting down his cup, Jerry reached for my hand and clasped it gently. “You mean like the other day when everything had gone wrong at the office, and I came home and rudely lashed out at you? Oh, I know I later apologized, but it had to have cut you deeply at the time — it was so unlike me,” he said, eyes watering. Releasing my hand, he took my arm and gently caressed the scar. With a boyish grin, he said, “I noticed how you looked at your scar after my inconsiderate comment, and I wondered why — after all, it was healed. You never retaliated or lashed back at me in response, but the tears in your eyes said it all. Now I know why.”
That was decades ago, and since that time both Gato and my husband have passed on. But just as I wished, my scar still remains. I thank God that although it has faded, it is still visible. It is an ever-present reminder that validates an old proverb, “A friend loves at all times.”
And since I am a friend lover as well as a cat lover, it helps me to resist the temptation to kill a friendship over a self-defensive swipe or an unintentional wound.
~Kitty Chappell
