There is a cat on my leg. I cannot feel the leg anymore but for a strange tingling sensation where my leg used to be. The situation will not right itself soon, for the cat appears quite content. All love, it seems, is pain, especially where cats are concerned.
You may think I joke when I say all love is pain, but if it is a joke, it is a serious one; and if I am joking when I say it, I am joking most earnestly. Love, the poets tell us, is a verb. I once shocked a coworker by expressing myself on the topic of “Puppy Rooms.” She seemed to take it that I hated puppies. On the contrary, I love puppies, or at least, I have loved one puppy, the puppy I took home with me and raised and cleaned up after, the puppy that is now a dog (of fifteen years!) an old dog whose heart is failing. I do not know if I will have a dog for much longer, and I cry sometimes.
Love is pain, and I don’t regret it in the least. A “Puppy Room” has nothing to do with loving dogs. It is using dogs, using up their playful youth for our own selfish desires.
Love is pain, but it is worth it. I have written here of what are two small loves, my love for a certain cat and my love of a particular dog, but they are emblematic of love’s magnitude. Love means being uncomfortable, of sacrifice. Love means pain. I wouldn’t give it up for the world.
Tale Told 
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