I remember the first time I saw her. She was the only one in the crowded space who sat quietly, pressing against the door, staring up at me, pleading with her eyes for me to love and rescue her.
I took her out into the yard and she pressed her body against me. Her tail had a kink in it, one of many physical and mental reminders that someone had taught her that life was dangerous. And, being a rescue myself, having recently been rescued by someone who looked in my eyes and saw me, my heart saw a kindred spirit and took her home.
I can see now that others would not have had that response. That the pleading eyes might be too much of a demand. By her. Or by me.
She wasn't the only one to rescue me. Or the only one I rescued. For a while we were part of a tripod of mutual support. Even now, when the two of us who survive are together, she is missed. Although it's been several years since she lived with me, I sometimes wish she was curled up beside me on my bed. Pretending she'd stay at the foot, and eventually pushing me to the edge. We knew she wouldn't be with us forever. And while she was, she taught us both a lot about loving, accepting, being loved, being accepted, the strength of needing someone, the power of filling a need.
Even now, the threads of loving and accepting and support she was so essential a part of remain unbroken. She was a gift - she gave herself to us and gently taught us how to love.
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