Gunshot to Glass

I watch The Cat Who Lives in the Garage adeptly descend from her perch on the fence and approach the food bowl. She keeps one eye on it and the other on me and my camera, pausing every few steps to assess the danger and listening carefully to the frenzied barking emanating from inside the house. The dogs are not pleased with her presence and they want her - and me, I'm sure - to be quite clear about their feelings. She keeps her guard up and stays alert but when she reaches the food dish she ignores the non-stop barking and concentrates on her meal. In the battle to win her trust, I feel we've reached another milestone but experience tells me that the finish line is still a very long away,

It also occurs to me that trying to befriend this animal ( although to what end, I still don't know ) is an exhausting and highly frustrating process. It's hard enough to build trust within a species - and there you frequently have the added benefit of a common language on your side - while all I have is friskies, a stubborn streak, and a good heart.

Of all the bridges we build to try and connect to each other, trust is the strongest, the most delicate, the most sacred.

It can stand for a thousand years unsupported or come crashing down like gunshot to glass. Once broken, it may be patched and over time, even repaired, but without its original integrity, it can't ever be made as new. No matter how deeply the seeds of suspicion are buried, the heart always knows they're still there, pushing gently and slowly but with great resolve, toward the surface. Each and every day after each and every rehab, I prayed for my husband and myself, wanted so desperately to believe in his sobriety that I was consumed. And always, the disease came back, and with it the inevitable cover ups and lies and betrayals. On the surface, I willed myself to believe, but deep in my heart, I knew - the rebuilt bridge was in serious and mortal danger of collapse and I was afraid I might not make it across in time.

I don't know what The Cat Who Lives in the Garage has experienced with humans or what circumstances brought her to my door, only that her instincts to be wary are fully engaged and that she is prepared for betrayal. Convincing her to trust me is likely to be a long and rocky road, mostly uphill and it may even prove futile, but I'm committed to trying.

Stray cats and alcoholics, I think to myself, there ought to be a country song in that somewhere. Meanwhile, the cat eases so close I could reach out and touch her - but I don't. I'm beginning to see that the way she looks me is the way I looked at my husband, through a filter of suspicion, doubt, and a safe distance away. No sudden movements, I remind myself with a sigh, no gunshot to glass.