Friends!
Humans worry when old cats stare into space. You notice us sitting very still in the hallway, or beside the radiator, or halfway up the stairs where we’ve inconveniently decided to become decorative. Our eyes go slightly unfocused. We don’t move for several minutes.
Then someone says it. “Aw… what’s Malcolm thinking about?” Usually in a sad voice, as if worried that my mind might be going.
But when we do this, we are not staring at nothing. Young animals stare at things. Old animals stare through them. There is a difference.
The Triplets, for example - Cleo, Ron and Percy - spend most of their waking lives launching themselves at invisible enemies. A shadow moves across the wall and suddenly all three of them are galloping sideways like tiny furry crabs possessed by demons.
Percy once attacked a paper bag for twenty-seven minutes. Ron regularly forgets why he entered a room. Cleo at least has potential, but she uses it mainly for organised crime.
Meanwhile, I sit quietly and observe. This is called wisdom. Or arthritis. Sometimes both.
Humans assume that because we’re still, we must be confused. But old cats become still because we’ve already done most things worth doing.
I have sprinted through gardens at midnight. I have climbed fences I absolutely should not have climbed. I have fought an umbrella.
I have survived seventeen Christmases, and a phase where somebody thought buying Baby Dog a squeaky carrot was a good idea.
You stop reacting to every little thing after a while. The world comes to you instead. And when I stare into space, I am usually remembering. Not grand things. Cats rarely dwell on achievements.
Mostly I remember ordinary moments. A warm windowsill. Rain against glass. The sound of someone crying quietly downstairs years ago. The exact patch of sunlight that used to appear in the bedroom at four in the afternoon during summer.
The first night Baby Dog arrived. He was all paws and ears and uncertainty back then. Trembling slightly, pretending he wasn’t frightened. I remember sitting beside him while he slept because someone had to establish order.
I still maintain order now, obviously. He’s six and considerably larger than me, but that changes nothing. Occasionally I still have to tap him lightly on the face for administrative reasons. He accepts this. Respectfully. That’s friendship.
The younger cats don’t understand any of this yet. They think life is something to chase. They believe happiness is speed. But eventually they’ll learn the finest moments are often very quiet ones. Like a house settling at night. The sound of people you love moving around in nearby rooms. A blanket fresh from the radiator. Someone absentmindedly reaching down to stroke your head while thinking about something else entirely.
Old cats stare because we notice things. Because we remember things. Because after seventeen years, life begins to feel less like separate days and more like one long afternoon made of familiar sounds and people and naps.
Also sometimes we are simply waiting to see if someone opens the fridge.
I don’t want to give the wrong impression here. But mostly, humans misunderstand stillness. You think nothing is happening because nothing is moving. That’s very human of you.
Some of the most important things in life happen quietly. So the next time you find an old cat sitting motionless and staring into space, don’t feel sad. We are not lost. We are simply somewhere deeper than you can currently see.
Lots of love,
Malcolm xx