Felix the Therapy Cat

I have a cat. Not just any cat. This cat was the one we kept from a litter of six kittens born in my husband's closet the year we moved to our old farmhouse. This little boy-kitty had some distinct features that endeared all of us right away. Big, blue-green eyes, white stockings and chest and a white mustache on his otherwise black short fur--he was not the prettiest in the litter. That distinction would go to his Siamese-looking sibling, or his white, long-haired brother, or the white and tabby-spotted long-haired sister. They all found homes, but Felix stayed. Natural selection? Survival of the fittest? Hardly. More like last one picked, sticked. My husband relented and allowed him to stay.

Felix was possessed of a strong sense of himself from the start. A loud, sibilant cry announced his arrival or particular need, usually for food or a warm lap. His resonant purr rewarded those of us on his staff for our prompt accomodation. A sharp cuff from his mother kept him in line when he wandered too close to the road, or too close to her feeding dish. His hunting prowess was unparalleled.


But the most striking feature about Felix wasn't his yowl or his milk mustache. It was his uncanny ability to calm my son. Out of five of us humans who share his domicile, Felix sought out my son to sleep with, to visit, to cuddle with, to play with. He would spread his time out with all of us in good measure, but there was no denying that Felix and my boy had a special bond.

I have heard of therapy animals, and have seen video of well-trained dogs who visit nursing homes and hospitals, but a cat who naturally assumes the role of comforting an autistic child, I have never experienced.

Felix will turn seven years old this summer, on Father's Day. What a good and perfect gift he's been from the Father of Lights.