Lessons from Divo

Divo gazes at me, his marble eyes translucent as still water with no obvious thought in them. I am scooping teaspoons of his tuna meal from a can, crooning, “Wait, Divo. Good boy.” When I scrape bits of the meal stuck in the can, he knows I’m about ready to take his plate to his feeding corner.

He then he leaps onto the kitchen ledge, creeps close to my right shoulder intimately, as if he would give me a kiss or whisper to me. I feel both, though he expertly leaves a space, where my heart expands. We repeat this ritual in the morning for his dinner. We have both grown with it—he, into a sleek 12-pound tabby; I, into a cat-lover, a commitment undeterred by shifting seasons, moods, and the lure of a lake spa.

If Divo were human, his gesture would most likely be a crisp, “thanks,” the first time that is. He would take later feedings for granted, as if his right, and I am obliged to grant it. I could shore up my withering self-esteem from an increasing draught by invoking the well of unconditional commitment. I may even, perhaps, rise in spirit and feed him like I would a heavenly master. Still deep in that chamber between beats of my agonist and antagonist, I know I would long for something more.

Thesaurus books pair “gratitude” and “appreciation” as twins. I have never really thought about their difference until after months of feeding Divo. His never-without-“thanks” gesture—giving back to me what I give him—has heaped value on my task of feeding him. This thought then emerged: Gratitude may end with an act; appreciation begets a chain of acts that could lead to transformation.

Unaware that this idea had changed me, Juliet threw up her hands one day in disgust with what she thought an absurd excuse for turning down a few dinner invitations because I couldn’t pass up a not quite kiss. But she calmed down counting the tasks I have taken on in our jobs—as part of who Divo has turned me into, my constancy, simplicity and, perhaps now, devotion to my feeding duty because of his appreciation, have turned priceless. I am transformed.

When an editor thanks me for a piece I submit, for instance, I thank her instead—as I have had Aleesha in each issue that she accepted my article. For me, it is no mere bouncing of the word “thanks,” I once wrote Susan, another editor, as that which has been given—the opportunity to write—if appreciated enlarges in meaning and significance.

That exchange with Susan called to mind how an editor of a small daily in Manila wrote me back when I thanked him for putting an interview I wrote in the front page, boxed it for prominence, and even added on a cartoon that pleased my subject. “Your letter brought on smiles in the ‘boiler room’, and not steam but cool rain drenches us. You turned a regular assignment into a celebration,” he said. Yet, not I, but the “boiler guys” doubled in my puny height, because of how they treated my piece.

I walk lightly, yet I feel full these days. I tend to smile easily, as well. Yet, when I travel, worry over who would feed Divo weighs on my baggage, needless, really. Gary, who takes my place, even brings in his kids who walk Divo in the courtyard, scattering laughter that rise like balloons to the corridors where the doors of our suites are lined.

Chances are Marie, who hears them, would reach for her Irish wool cardigan, limp to the corridor, and from the railing catch those candied squeals Divo brings on. Imagining the scene enlarged from bundles of wordless appreciation tossed back and forth, I then would snuggle in my plane seat and let sleep steal in.