The cat was mean. ‘I’ll-bite-you-if-you-walk-by-without-feeding-me’ mean. But with my child, that mean cat turned soft. I always carried my child—not because I was afraid to put her down or because I didn’t “let her crawl,” though those rumors circled my family, eating away at me. I always carried my child because she couldn’t be put down—I was her anchor, her base—and without that connection, she went into a blind panic.
I don’t even remember whom I was with, but I was lost in conversation, walking through the woods with my ‘don’t-ever-put-me-down’ baby all snug in a woven wrap. And that cat came along, running ahead, lying in the road until we passed, and then bounding ahead again. It’s a funny thing to take a walk with a cat. This went on about 15 minutes and then the cat disappeared. But my back hurt and I had to retie the woven wrap or the walk home would be torture. My baby wouldn’t go to my friend, so I laid my jacket on the ground and gently put her down. She screamed. Not the ‘hey-pick-me-up’ scream, the ‘I’m-in-grave-danger’ scream—and it’s very possible she felt that she was. While my fingers flew to do their work, from deep in the woods came a black flash, and in an instant, that mean cat was rubbing the whole length of her body against my child, sniffing and doting like a mother hen. It didn’t take me long to tighten up that wrap, and my baby settled down once I scooped her up like nothing had happened—all was right again in her world. But I’ll always remember that cat—that day—and I’m told that years after we left the ecovillage where we were living, that cat stayed soft—never scratched another kid or bit someone out of spite.
My child has always had a way with animals. She’s 8 now. Still really anxious if I put her down—and with 55 pounds, it’s rare I even pick her up. Then we got labels like “autism” and “severe maternal attachment.” We waited nearly seven years before that trip to the doctor. We waited nearly seven years while we saw needs and met them, and then we said, “We want a name for this—maybe good will come out of it.” And it has already. Within three months of the ASD diagnosis, we got on a list for service dog. I am her anchor, but in the next year, when we get the phone call I wait every day for, I won’t be her only one. When she’s with an animal, she’s connected, secure, and really the best version of herself.
I didn’t consider myself an artist before we were tasked with fundraising to bring this dog home. I doodled in the margins and got a compliment or two, but it was play. A lot has changed since then. Now I’ve started an art business. I’ve found a way to fundraise, a way to help this dream become reality, and I’ve found my passion. It’s fitting that I’m doing commissions of people’s pets—honoring that very connection that my child experiences so powerfully—the connection that will give her another anchor (and give my back a break!).
My child turned that mean cat soft. Imagine what a dog—a specially trained service dog—will do for my child.
To see examples of my work, visit my portfolio. If you'd like to help us get closer to our goal, check out my store to consider commissioning artwork or simply make a donation here. Many thanks and many blessings, Davene