Love. It's something we hear about all the time, something we're told, something that we all believe in, not because we know it to be true but because it's just been so deeply ingrained in us from childhood. It's something that's so intangible that belief alone has to be what holds it to us. Love, we're told, is something metaphysical, something that's not there, in the sense that it's nothing that can be measured or explained. It's something that even if we're told it's biological and the effect of chemical reactions, we still hold our faith in it.

It's hard sometimes though, to hold that faith. If love is truly intangible and out of the reaches of physical, chemical or biological reactions, then it can happen between anyone, at anytime and it should be beautiful. If we truly believe this, as we tell our kids, and have them tell their kids, then why can't girls who aren't lesbians love another woman? Or men who are straight love other men? I'd like to believe that they can. Love is something special and shouldn't be wasted because of race, gender or even, species. We love who we love.

As a child, I was never really what you'd call "normal". Far from actually. As a little girl, while others were off playing with their dolls, or playing dress up, or running from boys, I was busy getting into things. Not trouble, per se, more like boxes. Boxes, at least for me at that point in time, were my life. I could pretend I was an astronaut exploring deep space, or Superman busily working in his fortress of solitude. There I could be who I wanted, whenever I wanted and I felt comfortable.

My parents were rarely home as they both were full time providers, and my grandmother who watched over me, although she loved me a lot, did not spend much attention on me. Which was fine in my book actually as I was starting to enjoy being alone, being in my world that was the box. I remember how happy I was when my parents bought a new refrigerator. That massive box became my home. I slept in it, I played in it and I damn well wished that I could live in it. I was alone and I was happy, until the day my parents came home with another box, one that was about the size of a shoebox and contained something other than shoes, something alive.

When I discovered the contents of the box, I almost cried. Feeling that I was lonely, my parents, in an act of total love and kindness, not knowing how secure I felt in my solitude, decided to buy me a pet as a present. It was a sweet gesture, but I was terrified beyond belief. Not of the cat of course. I wasn't scared of animals and this one was only about the size of my dad's palm. I was scared because of what it meant to my universe, of having to share it with another, of having to share my personal space and my life with something else. I was so used to being alone.

I remembered I cried myself to sleep that night and the dreams I had woke me sporadically through the night. The next morning my mom kept me home from school because I had actually gotten myself sick with distress. The kitty tried to climb onto my bed but I shooed it off. It looked almost hurt. I closed my eyes and dreamt of swinging through the streets of New York as Spiderman.

The cat was named Dusty. Eventually at least. My parents insisted I name it and it took me two weeks before I could even bare to consider a name for that monster that had so fiendishly invaded my life. I don't even know why I called him Dusty except that it sounded better than "The Stupid Cat".

At first it wasn't so bad. Dusty wandered the house curiously and poked his nose into everything while I sat in the basement with my box. At first. Then he began nosing around me, poking his head into my daydreams. I was annoyed to say the least. My imagination was my world, and it had no place for a cat. Then one day I found him in my box. I was furious. In my immature rage I broke his leg. I wish I could say that I felt some remorse, but at that point, I was too busy thinking of myself. It was easier.

My parents believed my story that he had fallen down the stairs and soon he was in a kitty cast. He stayed away from then on and I didn't mind it one bit. And so our lives continued on for about a year, with him afraid of me, and me hating him.

I was 10 when my life fell apart. I skipped home from school that day. I had just gotten an A on a math test and I was one happy kid. As I was approaching my house, all I could think about was whether I would patrol Gotham in the batmobile or the batwing. It turned out to be neither.

I had been crying for 5 hours when my parents got home and explained that they had taken the box outside to carry some things back into the house with when the wind picked up and blew it away. They promised me to get me another one, but I knew it wouldn't be the same. I was crushed. I spent the days crying and the nights crying and somehow managed to keep that routine up for a few days before an event happened that changed my life.

It was 2am when I awoke, vaguely aware of a presence in my room. Dusty, his well-kept orange fur glinting in the light off my Flintstone's night-light, nudged me awake and meowed at me expectantly, ignoring my flailing arms and excessive use of the word "die". He kept it up until I finally gave in and got up, thinking that I needed to feed him or something. It was odd for him to be here at any rate as he had taken to going or nightly strolls around the neighborhood.

I was hesitant at first to follow him outside when he jumped out the window and meowed for me to follow, but eventually my fear of having my parents woken up by the noise prompted me to slip on my sandals and join him. It was exhilarating being in the night air with him, a feeling of adventure and feel and excitement that just made me feel alive. And scared out of my wits. But I was in good hands, or paws, I should say.

Dusty knew all the back alleys, all the secret paths and roads and eventually we reached our quarry, which was to say, my box. I couldn't believe it, but there it was. A bit dirty of course, as it had been outside for a few days, but it was my box nonetheless. It must've taken me at least half an hour to drag it back home and by the time I fell back asleep it was almost 4, but I was happier than I had ever been. I wanted Dusty to join me in my bed to celebrate but he ran when I reached for him. For the first time in my life, I knew what it felt like to care about hurting somebody. I felt shunned.

I was never one to give up. When I was 6 and I was trying to ride a bike and kept falling over, despite my mom's anguished pleas, I continued trying. It took me 45 more attempts and several cuts and bruises, but at the end of the day, I had done it. I never gave up on anything. My mission now was no less important. I had to make it up to Dusty and tell him how much I wanted him in my life. He had given me something that I hadn't felt before. He had cared about me.

As a selfish 10 year old, I never felt cared about by my parents who were rarely home or my grandmother who never seemed to talk to me. I realize now that I was stupid, but I can't change how I was. So everyday I came home and before my grandmother could do it, I'd feed him.

It took him a while before he would go to the dish if I was nearby, but slowly it happened. Everyday I would talk to him, and confide in him, and pet him and (attempt to) hold him. Gradually his fear fell away and we became closer. I began to realize how wonderful it was to share your life with somebody, to share your thoughts, to have somebody care (or at least make you feel like they cared).

We became closer and closer until one day, when I was busy with my homework, a small ball of orange fluff jumped onto my lap. It was then that I knew it was time.

Dusty was so happy in my box. He danced and jumped and batted at the cardboard flaps. He rolled around and bonked his head playfully at the walls. I had never smiled so much. I wanted to remember this moment, to preserve it forever, but I didn't know how. My eyes desperately scanned the room for a camera, or a pencil or something. The canvas felt soft to the touch.

I knew I wasn't supposed to touch my dad's art supplies but at that point, I didn't care, I just wanted to remember the moment. I hadn't painted much in my life, and I didn't know exactly what to do when I picked up that brush, but I was driven more on emotion than thought. And then a miracle started to happen. I didn't know what I did at the time and I still don't, but I know that it changed my life. The brush seemed to flow with my heart, dancing with the playful tunes that were caressing my inner being.

I watched Dusty and the painting began to grow, almost on its own, almost organically, almost as if it was a being unto itself. When I was done I stared at it in amazement. It wasn't Picasso, but it was beautiful. What experience I lacked was made up by passion. Skill was replaced with enduring resolution. My parents were impressed with it too, and my dad never made a mention of my illegal use of his supplies.

They encouraged my gift and soon my room was filled with all sorts of paintings, most of them revolving around my new best friend, Dusty. My relationship with my parents also grew stronger with the discovery of my newfound talent as I began to realize that they truly did love me. And of course, Dusty was with me every step of the way.

Thirteen can be a frightening age for some. It was for me. I was already well into the process of becoming a woman and to say that I was uncomfortable with the changes in my body was to say that rain was wet. Although I was maturing sexually, every part of me that was me and not this stupid body I was stuck in, wanted nothing more than to be that innocent kid playing in her box.

My friends, what few I had made in elementary school were also acting differently, dressing up more, talking differently, thinking about different topics. They didn't want to run from guys anymore. Quite the contrary actually, as it seemed like they wanted to run TO them.

My life was quickly changing and the speed at which it was moving was making my head spin. Eventually I was left alone again. My friends having realized I was a "weirdo" and so, by some logic that only made sense to them, "ditched" me. I wasn't exactly happy that year.

It was hot that summer. Especially in my room. For some reason that can only be explained by God or a mechanic, my air conditioner took that time to break down. I remember lying in bed in my underwear wishing for snow to fall. It was an effort just to sleep. Sometimes it didn't seem worth it. Dusty would often come into my room and I would converse at great length with him.

We'd talk about the weather, and about life, and school, and my parents, and my friends, or lack of such, and philosophize about the great mysteries of the universe. The fact that he didn't talk back didn't bother me one bit. He was a good listener, and he had his way of telling me how he felt. It was at that time I began falling in love with him I think. I wasn't sure at the time, but now that I think back, I know it was indeed love. But at that point, I just knew I cared for him a great deal.

The first lick was like heaven. I hadn't expected it at all. That night had been the hottest and I had laid in bed stark naked trying to imagine myself on Hoth fighting a Wampa. I didn't feel Dusty climb onto my bed and I didn't see the look of worry in his eyes. It wasn't just heat that bookmarked that day, but also the fact that I had actually been given a proverbial slap in the face by a guy that I liked when he told me I was too ugly. It wasn't a good day. I felt like crap and with the heat, I'm sure I was beginning to smell like it too.

I didn't expect Dusty to get between my legs and I didn't expect him to slowly massage me with his tongue. I didn't expect the feelings of immense pleasure sweep through me either. I moaned. His sandpaper tongue dug deeper and the sensations increased. My breathing quickened, my body quickly responding to his loving manipulations. His tongue found my clit and suddenly I was in heaven.

My orgasm, my first orgasm, washed through me like clean spring water and I bit my pillow to stop screaming out. He looked up and I thought I saw him smile. I knew then that our friendship had become something more, and that he had done what he had done, not out of instinct but out of something far greater, something that made him more human than any homosapien I had ever and would ever meet.

We spent almost every night together after that and every day. I was becoming an expert painter by then and every day I would turn to him for inspiration and he'd give it to me, even without doing anything. I once painted 6 pictures of him sleeping. He helped me through so much during our time together. Besides making me feel like a real woman every night, he helped me through my day life as well.

My first day at highschool, my first exam, my first fail, my first A. Everything I did, it was like he did it too and felt it too. He loved me. I don't know if animals can love, but hell if that wasn't the closest one has ever gotten. Life was heaven for a while. My paintings were amazing and garnering rave reviews from teachers and students alike and my confidence level was sky high. I didn't even blink when I failed my first Calculus test and instead worked harder at the subject and ended up with a 90 in the course. I never gave up and Dusty made me feel worth all the effort. I was in Eden. Then along came the snake with the apple.

It had started innocently enough. I was sitting in the hallway by the Music Department one quiet afternoon, after just about everyone had gone home, painting the people playing Frisbee in the field just outside the window when my canvas was knocked over. In anger I looked up to see what type of horrid criminal had dared to defile my work when I came face to face with the most spectacular example of a male human I had ever seen.

Somehow his facial features, although not overly special by any stretch, pushed all the right buttons in whatever biological centre it was in my body that governed my hormonal lust. It was love at first sight.

What happened to the defiant, box-loving superhero at that moment escapes me, but I felt more like Lois Lane than Superman and I was loving it, if only because of my damned hormones. His smile was unreal and I just stood there staring. His name was Tom. Tom. Tom. Tom. The triad of letters bounced around my head, the name of a God. He made a joke. I giggled. He brushed his hand against my cheek. I blushed. He asked if I was single. I didn't even think. "Yes."

I began to spend less time at home and I think Dusty knew, or at least suspected something was up. He would always look at me strangely when I came home later and seemed to be able to pick up Tom's scent on me. He still lay with me though and still would bury his head lovingly in my mound, but I was beginning to stop him. It wasn't normal. And now, as my integration into the real world began, I was starting to worry about my "relationship" with my cat. I began thinking about it to the point that it became an obsession.

My biggest fear was becoming a deviant and I began picking every flaw out of Dusty. Nothing he did was right and nothing he did was normal. I wanted to deserve Tom, I wanted to be worthy of his attention. I wanted it so much I eventually believed it. I loved him. I wanted to love him.

The day I skipped my art show for Tom's football game was the day that we became a couple. I was so happy and I wanted to cry. I was accepted. I began to wonder if my years of isolation was merely me fleeing from a world that I didn't want to put in the effort to try to be in. A better world that I just didn't want to try at, that I was afraid I'd fail at.

I felt like I had conquered that fear, that I had become something truly special. We fucked for the first time that night, in celebration of his win and everything. Tom never wanted to call it "making love" he said it sounded too wussy. I didn't climax that night, but he did and it made me feel special when he did, like I was worth something to him, that I was useful, special.

When I came home, late as usual, I crawled right into bed, knocking away a curled up ball of orange fur that had been sitting so patiently in my bed. But I hadn't even noticed it. I was normal, I was special, I had found love.

As my relationship with Tom progressed, I gradually began to forget about Dusty, scolding him if he needed affection while I was on the phone. Our long nighttime interludes had long since been replaced by sleep. He grew lonely, depressed. When Tom had first come over, Dusty hissed at him, and instead of feeling safe, I got angry. Eventually Tom started replacing his customary spot next to me in bed. It was tough on him.

If I had paid any attention at all back then I would have noticed him changing. The bounce and energy I had once loved in him had faded out slowly. He woke up each day like he was forced to, like his life had no meaning anymore. But I ignored him, moving from being a girl to a woman, I forgot about my brief childhood love affair with my kitten and concentrated on tom. He was everything to me, and soon my world had no room for Dusty.

And one day the inevitable happened, I woke up and my companion for the past 6 years was gone. Someone had left a window open, which had happened often in the past, and Dusty left. He had never done that before. I was devastated. We searched all over. We put up posters, made phone calls, placed ads, but nobody had seen him.

Tom didn't understand why I was so upset over "just a cat". He didn't understand, how could he? He had never had anybody so close to him, so loyal, honest. Dusty was more than a pet, more than a friend and even more than a lover to me, he had been my soul mate. And I loved him.

Eventually time passed and I graduated from highschool and moved in with Tom, but my pain didn't fade. With every day that passed it became harder and harder to get up, things weren't the same anymore. I buried my thoughts in anything I could, my studies, my job, Tom. I stopped painting. Without Dusty as my inspiration, the paintings just didn't seem to have the same life I used to be able to breathe into them.

Slowly, the years pasted and I realized my gift had left me, my paintings seemed so cold, so lifeless. I was unhappy, but I didn't know what to do. I couldn't leave him, he was everything that was left in my life, everything that I had buried my pain in. As time went on he began getting more irritable. I thought marriage would solve everything. 3 years after living together, we tied the knot. The honeymoon was lovely, we went to the Caribbean, and shared sunsets together, yet still it wasn't the same. There was something missing. There had always been something missing.

When we got back, things got steadily worse. We were slowly falling into debt, and the honeymoon had taken a significant chunk of our savings out of us. I sold my old paintings for money but I hadn't made a new one in over 4 years. Worse still, I had dropped out of university. I just couldn't focus. Tom still had school and I had to work both days and nights to support us. He began getting angrier each day. He criticized me, my cooking, my looks, my art. One night I caught him in bed with another woman. I was devastated.

He promised me it would never happen again, but somehow I got the feeling it had already many times. I didn't know what to do. I wanted to leave him but I couldn't get up the courage, I felt guilty, I didn't want to hurt him. I suggested that we should get counseling. He got angrier than he had ever gotten before. I spent the whole morning trying to cover up the bruises with makeup.

Then one day I woke up and my world was shattered again. The picture above our bed, the one I had painted so long ago of dusty, my first painting, the one that started my love affair with the arts, was gone. I searched frantically, reliving my desperate search for my cat all those years ago, until Tom told me he had sold it, that it had been worth a lot of money and that it had nothing but sentimental value. I was crushed. I said that he had not bothered to sell his autographed football. 5 years ago he would have apologized, 3 years ago he would have given a reason, now his fists did the talking.

When he left for school I looked through his stuff and found out who he had sold it to, and pleaded and begged to get it back. Eventually the new owner agreed. I bought my painting back, for twice what it had sold for.

Tom returned that night and found out what I had done. He was livid. He screamed at me for my selfishness. I told him we still had enough money for the rent and for food, and it was my money. He wanted none of it. He hit me again, hard, then again and again. I was crying. I could taste my blood from my broken lip. He said he had a long day and wanted relief. I wasn't up for it. He didn't care.

He threw me on the bed. I screamed, but he threatened to hit me again. I shut up. He ripped my pants off and undid his belt. I protested. His belt buckle hit my forehead. I shut up again. He held my hands down and got between my legs. I tried to stop him but he threatened me with his belt. I closed my eyes and cried inwardly. I braced for it, and heard a scream. I looked up. He was holding his bloodied penis in his hands, 3 slash marks deep across it.

I heard a meow from beside me and saw dusty, my lover, my protector, my hero, looking at me with concern. His fur was no longer a shiny orange, he looked bony and malnourished, and he walked with a limp as if a limb had been broken and left to heal on it's own, but at that moment, he was the most beautiful sight in the world. I felt so many emotions at once grief, guilt, relief, everything flooded through me at that moment, but only one stayed, joy.

I got off the bed, changed my clothes and gathered my things. He screamed at me and swore at me and spat at me. I didn't care, I felt courage I hadn't felt in a long time, I felt young again. I left him that night, feeling scared and excited all at once. I called my mom from a payphone and took a cab back home.

I finalized the divorce soon after and lost a lot of my hard earned money to him. I didn't care, I was in love again. A week later, I was sitting out in the yard like I had all those years before watching Dusty play in the flowers, and I suddenly felt a feeling I hadn't in a very long time. Immediately I got an easel and a brush out and began painting, and painting, and painting. The brush felt like a feather in my hand, I didn't have to think, I just painted. Picture after picture after picture until I ran out of canvas.

The next day some well to do friends of my parents came over and were talking to them when they saw my pictures lying against the wall to dry. They were impressed and wanted to buy some. Eventually their friends heard about it.

I sold painting after painting in the coming weeks, and continued to create. I made more money than I had made in a year of work living with Tom. And through it all, dusty was at my side, making me feel loved in a way that only he could. And every night he was back between my legs, taking me to greater heights than Tom ever could. Making me feel complete, whole.

He died many years later, living longer than most cats were supposed to. I was with him till the end. Holding him as he gave me one last smile and lick. I thought I saw the glimmer of something special in his eyes as he left me, something that said "I love you".

By then I had moved out into my own place, an expensive apartment which I could now afford with all my success as an artist. And a week after, I got another kitten, his name was poof. We didn't get along at first, but I kept at it, feeding him and caring for him and loving him. And one night, while I was lying in bed missing dusty, I felt a familiar presence of fur between my legs. I was in heaven again.

The End