Look at this guy Conolo. Pretty substantial isn’t he? He was a great greeter at my friend Diana’s house on Salt Spring Island. And he knew to sit by his bowl at 5 p.m. Cats have a great sense of timing.

I found it very interesting that he was a ginger cat as I had been hanging out with two ginger cats the week before – in two different locations in Nanaimo.

I don’t know much about Conolo but Diana tells me she thinks “canela” is “cinnamon” in Spanish, so she created what she thinks is the masculine version for her cat.

As time goes by, I expect I’ll learn more about Canolo. I know lots about the various healing centres Diana has visited around the world. One of those healing centres is right at home with Canolo.

The ginger cats – or perhaps, cinnamon cats – in Nanaimo, are Max and Ginger.

Max and I hung out in the summer and I considered that time my holiday and his home became my cottage. Max is pretty independent – he has a cat door to go in and out of, his food is out so he can nibble when he wants to and he pretty much has the run of the place. Except the guest room. He’s actually not allowed in there as some guests are allergic to cats. But this guest, me, is not allergic so I leave the door open and he sleeps on my bed, on my housecoat, for the night. I loved it as the cats at home don’t do that.

Also, Max will jump up on my lap in the living room. Neither of our cats at home is a lap cat.

Ginger lives in downtown Nanaimo and as her mama Carol was away for many hours during the day, I would go and spend a few hours with her. I’d open the balcony door so she could go out and perhaps see a humming bird out there. I’d give her a few treats. A chant metta playing on the CD player was helpful to both of us.

My father was at the end of his life when I sat in Carol’s living room looking out at the mist shrouding Mt Benson. While Ginger sat on my lap I cried for Dad, appreciating all sixty-seven years he’s been part of my life. There was no need to fix, no tissue handed to me, no pats on the arm. Ginger knew just to be, accepting unconditionally, what is.

Dad was in Hospice House in Kelowna during the week I was visiting both cats. He died on Sunday, October 19th at the age of 88.  I stayed quiet at home not going to my usual activities. I had naps under a cozy wool blanket. Squeaker, our five-year-old Maine Coon, spent the summer outside. And even now that it’s fall he doesn’t want to stay inside except for meals. Part of the reason is Izzy, his very exuberant one-year old sister.

But on a couple of those days when I lay under the wool blanket, Squeaker sat on my belly. He wasn’t asked or canjoled or scratched under his chin. He simply rested there to offer comfort. When I turned onto my side he stretched out beside me. All as well.

Even Izzy got up on the bed and after a few tweets tried to settle down. All that love. It’s a beautiful thing. There’s a soulful connection to cats. They teach us how to relax, stretch, and they teach forgiveness. I’ve heard that cats can get snooty and hold a grudge – for a time anyway. I haven’t found any of ours do that. I’m grateful for all our feline companions and how they know just when you need them to be close by.