Chewy, aka Catlips, woke me with a loud howl at 4am, as he often does these days. And seemingly for no apparent reason. But once I had visited the loo and made sure the cat was alright, I sat to drink some water. You know that’s a medical thing, right? Always drink water when you wake. Neurologists tell us that trick would prevent many strokes, which occur most of the time during the night and upon waking, and are directly linked to dehydration. So, water upon waking is an easy habit to adopt.

Waking in the middle of the night is my normal anyway, and that’s not a new phenomena; it’s been lifelong. Probably a genetic thing from centuries of ancestors who would naturally have had the biphasic sleep patterns of farmers. Sleeping eight consecutive hours was unthinkable before the industrial revolution, when the factory shift workers needed to train their bodies to work under artificial lighting. It’s a conditioned pattern that served the wealthy white industrial magnates, and there is nothing natural about it. It was designed to keep you enslaved, and it works efficiently.

That established, when I wake I am not necessarily anxious to get back to sleep – now that I don’t work early in the morning. Nor do I make early plans or appointments if I can help it. I usually fall back to sleep and wake – still early, but again, shortly after daylight. Last night as I did some breathing exercises and then picked up the novel I was reading, I felt an ominous presence lurking around my bedroom door. I asked it to leave (in my mind), and felt confusion. So I did some healing rituals, such as lighting a sage candle, and snapping my fingers rhythmically while chanting. I stated adamantly that “if you are not of the light of Christ, be gone.” Learned that in childhood, too, and it works. The energy dissipated and I relaxed. So did the cat.

The cat and I have been together nigh on 7 or 8 years now. He did not come to me as a kitten, but already several years old. He’d been born of a feral cat a friend took in. He was stillborn and she peeled him from the sack, gave him CPR and mouth to mouth and revived him. According to his original vet he incurred some brain damage, a twisted colon and breathing difficulties. I had two elderly dogs when I agreed to foster him temporarily from his second owner, and the rest, as they say…

So he came already sporting the name Chewbacca, presumably because he didn’t meow so much as stutter. I certainly was not going to change his name. He had already been displaced twice. That, in and of itself, is enough trauma for any small creature, I think. I also think the name Chewy does not suit him at all, but names are assigned before we know someone well in the best of circumstances. So no blame, just observation. My darling Chewy is a regal character. And to my mind, angelic. He deserves a sophisticated nomer. His nickname is Catlips when he is being silly, and Chew de Monk when he is being zen.

Upon introducing him to my dogs, I explained to them that he was a) a guest who temporarily needed our kind assistance, and b) to be respected as such. Both of my dogs were rescue dogs, both sweet natured and well behaved. Hariat had come from a Pembroke Welsh Corgi rescue organization. All we knew of her was that she was 5 years old, certified purebred by the AKA, that she had been a working dog on a farm, and that her owner had entered hospice. She came with the name Ariat, named after a line of equestrian gear. At the time we got her my husband and elderly father were struggling to understand or pronounce her name. They were utterly confounded. I asked her how she would feel if I added an H to her name, and henceforth she became Hariat. Hariat was one of the dear canine loves of my life. She immediately had bonded with my older corgi, Oliver, as if they’d always been friends.

After losing Oliver only a few years later, we grieved together for about a year. And then Odie came into our lives. Also not a suitable name for such an extraordinary dog, but we kept it. Odie was an old miniature beagle at the county animal shelter who needed medical care and love. We went to meet him. Hariat nodded her approval. They were fast friends, though not like she and Oliver. Grief had changed her. When Hariat and Odie and I accepted Chewy into our home I wasn’t sure what to expect. For starters, I did not know if either of my dogs had ever known or lived with a cat. Fortunately, Chewy did not know he was a cat. He fit right in as if he’d always been here. He and Odie had some kind of instant bond and were inseparable from day one. Seems obvious they spoke a common language I am not smart enough to understand.

We lost Hariat and Odie about seven months apart during the pandemic. Hariat had brain lesions that were causing frequent seizures. Odie stopped eating one day and the x-rays showed his colon full of cancer. They were each about 15 years old, to the best of my knowledge. I was devastated. So was Chewy. To this day Chewy sleeps on Odie’s blanket, sits on his bed steps, and drinks from the large water bowl they used to put their faces in together. Whenever I take the bowl to the sink for washing and refreshing Chewy follows, anxious, and makes certain I put it right back where it came from. He doesn’t do that with his other bowl or his fountain.

I won’t be adopting another animal any time soon for a number of reasons. But mostly it’s because Chewy is an old man now and deserves devotion and showered attention. He gives far more than he gets. Only since we have been here alone has it become apparent that he watches over me at night. Once in awhile a wayward spirit wanders in and he howls to alert me.

Animals are so much more than we have ever given them credit for in our lives, let alone our culture. My goodness they are intelligent, sentient and worthy of the best care we can possibly provide. What a magnificent blessing they gift us with in so many ways.