I am a chrysalis.

Stretched in a hammock, wrapped in a cocoon of cotton/silk blend, I hang suspended between two trees, with the sunlight dappling the leafy canopy overhead.

The lake is glittering below me, and the breeze is cool, and laughing.

I think of you, many oceans away, waiting out sandstorms, and I marvel at the possibility that despite our unique adventures, despite the friends who try so hard to fill us with love, despite our interesting jobs and busy schedules, we might sit in the same kind of quiet and yearn for the exact same things.

Was look at pictures of you.

And you.

And I could hardly wait to get home and tell you so.

From the land of Wiki:

Dave Van Ronk, an early supporter and teacher of Dylan, had the following criticism to make of the song All Along The Watchtower:

That whole artistic mystique is one of the great traps of this business, because down that road lies unintelligibility. Dylan has a lot to answer for there, because after a while he discovered that he could get away with anything—he was Bob Dylan and people would take whatever he wrote on faith. So he could do something like “All Along the Watchtower,” which is simply a mistake from the title on down: a watchtower is not a road or a wall, and you can’t go along it.^[5]

That’s where you’re wrong, Dave.

I say this as someone who deliberately set out, about a year ago, to sit on the lookout for enemies and wildfires, and lots and lots of would-be marrauders have gone along this tower that I inhabit.

Only one of them breached the fortifications, because I decided to head downstairs and point out the fact that the door was never locked in the first place. Schnooville isn’t for everyone though. I begin to wonder if it’s really for anyone else at all? It’s a fine place to visit, so I’m told, but I think perhaps there was an error in selecting the paint colours.

When I moved out of my parents’ home, they painted my bedroom yellow. Not long after, in an unrelated conversation, my mother pointed out that yellow is the colour best suited to guest rooms, because though it is cozy and comfortable, something about the colour makes people want to keep their visits brief.

I think Schnooville might be yellow.

I also think this might be o.k. As frustrating as it is, I have a tickle in the back of my head that tells me I have to sort out a couple of fairly major things before I can redecorate. I’m happy to report that I’m making major inroads here. It’s exciting, and it makes me feel really good about myself.

Love doesn’t happen in an instant, of course it doesn’t, but a gal like me knows in an instant if you’re going to have a good hold of my heart. Sometimes it happens when I speak with you face-to-face for the first time, and sometimes it happens when I read the way you are able to weave words together. But I know, instantly. From that place, when I feel like that, I open the door. The screen door too. So you can see that it’s open, and you can come in. Always for lemonade. Sometimes for a slice of pie. I can’t control whether or not you’ll choose to stay, but I will never act like you’re a stranger until track your muddy boots across the floor.

The time has come to extinguish the signal flame though. I’m still watching, but now I liken the activities of my heart to those of the Lady of Shalott. I am sitting before a mirror that is reflecting the view from my tower window. All day I watch, and weave the stories I see on a colourful loom. Some day, something beautiful out there will catch my eye, but before I impetuously abandon all of my intricate work to go chasing beauty down by boat, I think I’ll try lowering my hair-ladder. If you can scale the walls without falling into the thorns and gouging out your own eyes, I suspect you’ll want to stick around for a while.

On Thursday morning, I woke up on my own. I woke before the alarm, and I woke without Toulouse, and his morning routine of running his paw through my hair and nibbling on my nose to wake me. I lay still in bed, afraid to look for him because I assumed the worst. After a few moments however, he dragged himself out from beneath my costume rack, and mostly only using his front legs, pulled himself to the edge of the bed. A pathetic meow indicated that he wanted to be lifted up. Overnight he had almost completely lost the use of his back legs, and after two days of barely touching his food, he looked really grotesque. I scooped him up, feather light, and lay him on my chest. He looked up at me, and in his trademark style, reached up to place a delicate paw on my cheek. In that moment he spoke clearly to me.

A quick phone call to the vet, and I got up and dressed. From my linen cupboard I pulled a tiny crochet baby blanket that I had found at a vintage shop. I slipped on my shoes, and then scooped up Toulouse, wrapping him up like a baby. He always hated the cat-carrier, and the vet was at the end of my street.

He held on to me, calmly. Uttering only one loud meow as we left the house. I think his deterioration must feel like being stoned because he slowly inclined his head to take in all the sights and sounds as we made our way to the vet.

My heart was heavy. People on the street looked at me strangely. I suppose it’s weird to carry a cat around like an infant. I realized it hadn’t yet been a year since I first adopted him. I felt horribly guilty that I decided not to shell out the $1,000 to give this 90 year old cat daily insulin injections. Maybe he could live another few years with the treatment that he needed?

The sympathetic, soothing voice of the receptionist made my throat close up on arrival. She wisely suggested we settle the bill before seeing the vet. When they showed us into the exam room, there was a black towel on the exam table. The vet was also very kind. He carefully explained exactly what would happen, including the part about expiring the residual air in the lungs possibly moments after he appears to have gone. I’ve seen this in a person, and it’s remarkable how the death of a cat could bring all of those feelings back.

There is something solemn, and powerful, and final about witnessing death. The finality is sad, and somewhat terrifying. To see the total absence of energy, and the complete and utter stillness is unlike anything I can describe. To me, in such moments, it is remarkably clear that our bodies are merely shells. That the essence of what makes us “alive” goes somewhere else when we are no longer.

The vet, who is a lot like Bob Newhart, sedated Toulouse. He then shaved his paw, to administer the slow injection. (What is it that they inject?) He gave him the needle slowly with these words:

“Goodbye Toulouse. You’ve been a wonderful companion, and you were very grateful to have been rescued by Catherine, who loved you and did the best that she could.”

I marveled at how an alley cat who I had barely known a year could reduce me to a red-faced, tear streaked blob of jello.

But what a year we have had…

My constant companion in the face of what has been one of the most significant years of my life, Toulouse has seen the highs and lows, and some truly poignant moments that have unfolded in the Fortress of Solitude. He has delivered tender caresses on a daily basis – a constant source of affection, and I know he’s also delivered psychic messages to one or two suitors who have passed through here. How I wonder now what he has said to them?

Toulouse loved me from the moment we met. Or at least this is the story I create as I am anthropomorphizing him. At the adoption fair, he selected me by delicately wrapping a paw around the finger that I held near his cage, and by casting me a long, adoring gaze. He pleaded with me, and in that moment told me he would work hard at dealing with the mice if I would give him a home.

Animal services found him in the Don Valley, and at the time of his adoption, the volunteers were afraid that he would never find a home to go to. I was already convinced before hearing his story, so it was an easy sell. Though the adoption clinic was a short walk from home, I had to take a cab because he was too big and heavy to carry.

He made good on his promise. The second night he lived with me I came home to find the bloody entrails and tail of a mouse deposited in front of my bathroom.

He was efficient, attentive, affectionate and wise. His comic timing was brilliant, and he was a born romantic.

Only half-jokingly, I told a friend that I hoped his soul would find its way into the shell of a fully-formed adult male.

Adieu mon fidèle chat…