Now I know how Yuki feels


For those of you caught unaware, Yuki is the name of my cat. I say "my" loosely, as I have not seen this particular kitten in over a year now. He is residing in the great city of Chicago, and for that I am excessively jealous this week. You see, Yuki is a special needs cat. At least that is what the nurse at the kitty shelter told me. Turns out my furry black friend is an amputee. I won't tell the sad saga that is his early life, be happy to know that he is probably the luckiest cat in the western hemisphere at this moment.

I allude to the cat because Yuk used to have attacks of phantom limb. He would often sit on the floor, hike up his stump and shake it vigorously, in an attempt to scratch his ear. It nearly made me cry the first time I saw, and I would dive across the room to take the place of his foot and scritch it for him. Many people found it amusing, but to me it was devastating. The only way I could think to stop it would be to give him a peg leg, or perhaps a whisk leg. I didn't want a traumatized AND embarassed cat, so I decided against prosthetics.



The past few days I have had a similar feeling. My best friend left Japan several days ago and I feel rather like I lost a limb myself. I keep reaching for my keitai to tell him about something hilarious that happened, knowing he would appreciate it. Last night was the worst, though. I stood up in bed, searched around the room for him, even looked on the balcony for him, and as I opened my sliding doors to search the kitchen and bathroom, it hit me. He is not here. I know I was half asleep, but I was really confused and sad.

It doesn't help that I have very vivid dreams. Sometimes I wake up and don't know where I am, or crying about something I can't remember. The phantom will fade with time, I suppose. But there is something almost comforting and justifying in feeling it.