Rejection is a part of life but...

this time I'm not taking it lightly and I'm not taking it well. I submitted a story to I Love Cats magazine about Fur. It was called "A Tail of Friendship and Strength." I didn't send it in randomly, I sent it because the editor called for submissions for 2009. Well, she send me a rejection email the very next day that was one sentence along the lines of "I've published a lot of these types of stories before, I'm going to have to pass." First of all, her email came off as flippant and rude. Second, IT'S A MAGAZINE ABOUT CATS! I do love cats, but honestly, how many different types of stories do you expect to get? Cats sleep, eat, chase fake mice and purr...did she want me to pretend my cat had superhuman powers like the dog in Bolt and could fly or had supercat strength or extra sharp nails or had a super-meow? I mean come on, what did she expect to receive? Maybe she should specify that the cat needs to have magical powers and be out to save the world.

Whatever, no skin off my back. I never even heard of this magazine before so I'd say it is the one losing out, not me. Here's the story I wrote about my furball--I Love Cats magazine doesn't deserve my talent or Fur's face to grace its pages anyways.

Some people have a security blanket, a favorite stuffed animal, a best friend or a close sibling that’s been with them through thick and thin—a fixture that remains stable and constant no matter how tumultuous life becomes. For me, it is my cat and I never thought that he might not always be here. Until now.

Zachary, more frequently and affectionately referred to as “Fur,” became part of the family 13 years ago in August. I was in third grade when my family and I went to a local animal hospital to look at kittens. When I held him, he nibbled on my shoulder and I knew he was the one. When he came home to us a couple weeks later, officially my mother’s 40^th birthday present, he was skiddish and didn’t like to be held. But I scooped him up anyways and he stayed—I knew it was the start of a special relationship.

Fur became more than a pet, he is part of the family. He seems more like a friend that talks cat instead of English because of his distinctive personality. He’s lovey dovey and feisty with my family, staring up at you and meowing until you grant his request for food and nestling his head into my mom’s shoulder when he wants a morning hug. Every morning he sits on her newspaper while she tries to read around him and drinks coffee. He knows it’s their ritual. We used to lock him in the kitchen when he was young and his meows to be released each morning sounded like “mommm.” On the flip side, he’s hostile and downright mean to guests (we blame his cold demeanor to a traumatizing event as a kitten that involved wild, screaming children).

But above all, he is a companion; the most loyal friend who knows when I’m sick or sad and lays by my side until I recover. He owned half of my bed every night and since going away to college, has taken over my parent’s bed (he seems to think he’s entitled to the space between them, sprawling out and taking a portion of the pillow).

Anybody who knows me has heard about Fur. Most likely they have met him and been rejected—probably hissed at, growled at, scorned. They know it’s safer to like him than to ever speak against him, for fear our friendship will come to a screeching end. They’ve seen the thousands of pictures around my room and on Facebook—this black ball of fur with a patch of white on his tummy, under his arms and in the shape of a heart beneath his chin loves photo shoots, posing with me as his eyes turn from green to blue.

So when I found out in March 2009 that my baby has vaccine induced cancer, everybody knew things were about to be turned upside down.

He’d been growing a hump on his back that makes him look like a camel for a few months. Debates were had about when to bring him to the vet to have it checked. We were a bit reluctant because last summer he got diabetes and made monthly trips to the doctor. He hates this with a passion and we don’t like to traumatize him too often.

But eventually my mother sucked it up and took him for testing. Turns out he also went to a cancer specialist and when I got home for spring break, I was greeted with Fur in a “bonnet” (those plastic cones to stop animals from pulling out stitches) and his tumor the size of a small mountain, protruding from the middle of his back right between his shoulder blades. Shaved with little pink stitches sticking out of it, it mocked me, taunted me as a constant reminder that it was the reason Fur was sleeping even more (shocking) and barely eating (even more shocking).

This was not the furball I knew and it triggered a dramatic reaction on my part. I went on a long run and would start crying at random moments. I felt horrible because for the time being, Fur was okay and I knew I should be having positive thoughts and making him feel as if nothing was wrong. He knows he’s handsome and takes such pride in his appearance, grooming for hours. So I knew I couldn’t treat him any different, just because he looked sick.

Chemo wouldn’t do any good and removal would basically make him lame, so there’s nothing we can do. My mother said to visualize his bump shrinking and that’s what I’m trying to do. As hard as it is, no more negativity—it’s more important to enjoy every moment with him than to dread the future.

In the recent weeks he’s been getting back to his old self. He’s more active, eats fairly normally and has been much more talkative. Perhaps this is partly because he’s been getting spoiled and receives the royal treatment. He gets table treats that were previously banned because of diabetes and is allowed to sit on laps on the couch, also formerly banned. But he deserves it. After all, he’s a prince.