A few days ago, I walked into my bedroom at my parents' house, only to find a fluffy cat sleeping upon my pillow. The cat, named Lily, initially belonged to my sister, but she began to reside in East Wenatchee when my sister moved in with her boyfriend a few years ago. Back to the point, Lily had never chosen to sleep on my pillow. I'd almost never even seen her enter my room. She roams the rest of the house like a queen in her kingdom, jumping on the table or the kitchen counter whenever she pleases (much to the displeasure of my mother), but my bedroom has mysteriously remained outside of her domain. So, I might add, have I. Not because I dislike her, or because I dislike cats; I rather like cats, and cats rather like me. But, no matter how diligently I tried to earn her affection, it was always fruitless.
Ever since I arrived in June, I would regularly pet her, pick her up, meow at her, or just generally try to interact with her. When I attempted to pet her, she would walk away. Pick her up? She squeakily meowed like there was no tomorrow, until I released her. Meow at her? (This usually works with other cats.) She would wander away, unamused.
But, somehow, after two and a half months, I have gained Lily's trust. I can only assume that my diligence has paid off. And now I am leaving. Will she remember me in a few months? What about in a year? Was all of my effort for nothing, only to enjoy Lily's affection for the next two weeks until I return to a faraway land? It was worth it, I think.
... I think.
