Quietly regarding me with large, green soulful eyes, Guinevere lies on a lounge cushion placed on the floor. This mere whisper of a cat, deemed “un-adoptable” at the local shelter condemning her to live out her days in a small cramped cage, was now sequestered in our master bedroom. Learning that she was a “special needs” cat didn’t sway me from adopting her permanently.

In her crab-like, hopping fashion, Guinevere follows me around the bedroom. Determined to present me with her special head-bump of the day, she doggedly pursues me in her slow, lumbering manner.

Guinevere is seventeen years old (or so my vet believes). She does not invite my pity. If I start toward her when she is following me, she ducks under the bed. At first, I thought I startle her. But, the more time I spend with her, I begin to understand her. Recognizing, the fight and courage that drives her onward toward whatever her goal might be; the litter pans, the food bowls or my lap. She is a determined creature wanting only the simple things, wanting to stay safe.

Though walking is a struggle she valiantly keeps going she, tentatively exercising tired, damaged limbs. Somehow sensing that inactivity could prove to be risky and action is prudent.

Only when she reaches me am I allowed to kneel down; lowering myself to the floor, crossing my legs waiting for the special ritual to begin. She lurches over, lies down so that her head is resting on my knee. Carefully I lean over, scooping up her back-end and supporting her damaged shoulders easing her into my lap. The activity has worn her down. She closes her eyes and sleeps cradled in my arms.

Her attraction to me was immediate. Perhaps sensing that we are kindred spirits overcoming what might have destroyed others. I know she cannot see the scars. My shirts and jeans effectively cover up the highway of marks that zigzag over my stomach. A freeway of harsh reminders when the clothes are removed and the body is being contemplated in the full-length- mirror.

The marks can be covered up cosmetically. I never chose to do so. They remind me of a life long ago, when a young, naïve girl ran off with a man she was certain would love her forever. But forever’s are for fairy tales and sometimes fairy tales turn into nightmares.

As I watch Guinevere lying trembling in my arms, limbs twitching and her lovely mouth turned into a grimace. I fear she is chasing her own personal demons. I recall what fear tastes like, how love can quickly turn ugly and dark when people, afraid of getting involved simply turn around and walk away.

Do cats have nine lives? I believe Guinevere does. She has remained on earth for a reason. To be a gentle teacher, a spiritual guide. She inspires me daily to look beyond the surface, ignore the outer dressing, to weigh the heart and value the soul. Guinevere is pure white. The color white is said to symbolize; stability, power and trustworthiness; the sum total of my Guinevere.