From the Windowsill: Sir William Wallace on Courage, Hunting, and Other Important Matters

I have some very important news.

At seven years old, I have finally caught and killed my first mouse.

Thank you.

I appreciate your applause.

I realize some of you may be wondering why this milestone took so long. Frankly, I have wondered the same thing myself. But great hunters are not rushed. Great hunters wait for the proper moment.

And when that moment arrived, I rose to the occasion.

The mouse did not.

The kingdom remains secure.

This achievement feels especially significant because I recently learned that I am now considered a senior cat.

I discovered this while reading my bag of dry food.

Imagine my surprise.

One minute you're a young warrior with your whole life ahead of you. The next minute some marketing executive has decided you need special nutrition for aging felines.

I don't feel old.

I feel experienced.

Distinguished.

Seasoned.

A cat of wisdom and accomplishment.

A hunter.

Which is why I found myself paying particularly close attention when Mommy interviewed Jamie Cunningham on the radio this week.

Jamie has spent his life climbing mountains.

Real mountains.

The kind where one wrong move can have consequences far more serious than accidentally falling off the back of the couch.

As I listened, I couldn't help noticing how much we have in common.

Jamie spent decades developing his skills.

I spent years studying the habits of a mouse.

Jamie explored remote wilderness.

I patrol a significant portion of Main Street from my windowsill.

Jamie faced danger.

I face vacuum cleaners.

The parallels are obvious.

Still, there was something Jamie said that stuck in my fur.

Actually, it wasn't something he said.

It was something that happened after the interview was over.

Mommy came home and sat quietly for a long time.

She does that sometimes.

She stares at a notebook.

Then she writes something.

Then she stares some more.

Then she writes again.

I don't fully understand the process, but it appears to be exhausting.

While she was doing that, I heard her asking herself questions.

Humans ask a lot of questions.

Cats are generally more decisive.

The question I kept hearing was some version of, "What am I doing?"

She asked it several different ways.

Why am I getting up every morning?

What if I stopped caring so much?

What if I just put everything down?

I wasn't sure what she meant.

At first I assumed she was talking about work.

Then I thought maybe she was talking about laundry.

Humans spend a surprising amount of emotional energy on laundry.

But the more I listened, the more I realized she was talking about something else.

She was tired.

Not the kind of tired that requires a nap.

The kind of tired that sits deeper than that.

I've noticed it for a while now.

The truth is Mommy has been gone quite a bit lately.

She hasn't been feeling well, and she's spent a lot of time farther south where my step-dad can help take care of her.

Personally, I felt this arrangement was unnecessary.

I am extremely nurturing.

I would have happily laid on her chest for several consecutive days.

Unfortunately, nobody asked for my medical opinion.

So Auntie B stepped in.

Auntie B has been wonderful.

She feeds me.

She talks to me.

She understands the importance of maintaining proper standards around the apartment.

But she's not Mommy.

Every evening, I found myself listening for the sound of the door.

Waiting.

Watching.

Checking.

Sometimes Mommy came home.

Sometimes she didn't.

And every time she walked through that door, she smelled different.

Not bad.

Just different.

Tired.

Like someone carrying something heavy that nobody else could see.

The funny thing is that while I was waiting for her, I never once wondered whether she loved me.

I never questioned whether she was coming back.

I never sat by the door thinking she had abandoned me.

I just missed her.

And I waited.

Maybe that's why I keep thinking about Jamie.

He spent an hour talking about mountains, fear, and courage.

When I first heard the word courage, I thought about the mouse.

Naturally.

It was my greatest achievement.

But the more I think about it, the less impressive the mouse seems.

The mouse wasn't actually the hardest thing I've done this year.

Waiting was harder.

Watching somebody you love struggle when you can't fix it is harder.

Letting other people help when you're used to being the helper seems harder.

Trusting that someone will come home feels harder.

Maybe courage isn't always hanging off the side of a mountain.

Maybe sometimes courage is getting up when you don't feel like it.

Maybe courage is accepting help.

Maybe courage is continuing forward when you don't have answers.

Or maybe courage is simply loving someone enough to wait for them.

I don't know.

I'm only a cat.

What I do know is that Mommy eventually comes home.

And when she does, she always ends up in the same place.

Laying down.

Finally resting.

That's when I climb onto her chest and put one paw on her.

Not because I'm worried she'll leave again.

Not because I'm protecting her.

Just because sometimes the people we love need to know we're there.

Jamie climbed mountains.

I caught a mouse.

Mommy keeps showing up.

If you ask me, all three require courage.

Although, for the record, only one of us actually killed the mouse.

-William Wallace