Moony B. Finch’s face is an oil painting: coal black and flame streaks scratched on with a coarse-haired brush. She’s not the first cat to save me. Nor the first animal. But she is joy, she is my right-now-present-tense. She is my reason for pecking out prose single-handedly on the keyboard while the other hand supports her sleeping chin. Moony B. lets me forgive myself for the death of my last cat, Edie; for guilt over not having the money for all the tests and treatments and medications she wouldn’t have wanted anyway. From her perch on my shoulder, Moony B. whispers into my ear to let all that go, then steers me toward a low-hanging branch, where together we watch the neurotic movements of a fat autumn squirrel. My four-month-old kitten is keen to the wisdom that comes with seeing life for the first time.

Pilot’s coat is thick and wiry. One could easily have painted Moony B.’s face with a brush made from his hair. Perhaps he did it when I wasn’t looking, getting her ready for her arrival in our lives. He looks out for me like that. When I’m not watching. Crafty terrier. Pilot came in not two days after my last dog went out, falling easily into the job of letting me love him, anchoring me fast in this life with a reason to live when all other reasons were dim or blinking out. Pilot led me on long walks straight into the world of crow and all its wonder. But Pilot is tender and sensitive. He tells me when I ask too much of him the strengths I must find within myself. He is my sidekick on my quest through life, and when I take this quest too seriously, he makes me slow down, soak in the sun, and listen softly to the world around us. Pilot is not the first dog to save me. I always need saving, in some way or another. It’s always the animals, wild and tame, pure of self and effortless in their intentions, that come to my rescue.

Photos taken on San Juan Island, Washington, USA. Home away from home.

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