Lessons in Love from Community Cats

If you spend enough time around cats, you realise they are either tiny gurus or tiny gang leaders, the ones in my community are somehow both. They are not “mine” in the traditional sense, yet they belong to me in a way that has nothing to do with ownership and everything to do with trust. They come and go as they please, drifting in like smoke, disappearing like whispers, always on their own terms. And in the quiet ways they show up, they’ve taught me more about love and emotional intelligence than most people ever have.

Love doesn’t rush you
Cats never come because you chase them; they come because you make yourself safe enough to approach. Callie, for example, doesn’t like to be touched, but she’ll sit right next to me, close enough for her warmth to reach me, far enough to keep her own. Jamie will weave himself around my legs, brushing against me like he’s painting me into his day. Radhi takes things further she’ll climb onto my lap and refuse to leave, heavy and certain like she belongs there. Debu… well, Debu brings me gifts. Not the kind you can keep dead birds, reptiles, little trophies from her own world but gifts nonetheless, her way of saying, I thought of you.

Affection has many languages
Kay, Eku, and Sushi are my conversationalists. They talk to me in trills and meows, and I talk back, and somehow, we understand each other. Edd is a loner most days, preferring his own company, but when I am sick he turns into my shadow, refusing to leave my side. Vega still swats at my head from time to time, a little reminder of her bossy streak, but when I’m not looking she gives me soft, quick bites on the ankles her secret love language. Putty melts under head rubs, closing his eyes in pure surrender. Mumu craves the kind of deep, no-space-between-us cuddles that make you forget the world. Minnie is a touch-me-not, but when she spots me from a distance, she meows until I respond, like she’s making sure I’m still here. Dobby is built like a panda and impossibly cuddly which is exactly why he protests every time I scoop him up. Bitey, true to her kitten name, once sank her teeth into everything because trauma had taught her that closeness hurt. But with patience and too many gentle moments to count, she’s softened into a squishy, trusting girl who now leans into my hand. Abdu is a needy boy, a fighter, a tiny gangster who cries for attention and follows me like a puppy dog, all swagger and softness rolled into one. And then there’s Ginny and Bhalu both overflowing with love so pure and unfiltered it feels like sunlight; they love with no hesitation, no conditions, just this full-bodied, wholehearted affection that makes you want to be worthy of it.

Presence matters more than performance
None of them care about my degrees or how productive I was today. They don’t need me to be perfect; they need me to be there. Fully there. Not half-scrolling my phone. Not caught in my own head. Just sitting with them, in the quiet, noticing how their breathing slows when mine does.

Love is reciprocal, but not always equal
Sometimes I feed them, pet them, speak softly to them and they wander off without a second glance. Other times, I’m hurting and they seem to appear from nowhere, curling up beside me like they just knew. They’ve taught me that love doesn’t have to be constant to be real. It moves in waves, and you learn to trust the tide.

I think that’s why I love them so fiercely. They don’t pretend. They don’t lie. They don’t give more than they have, and they don’t take more than they need. They simply live, love, leave when they have to, and return when they choose.

And maybe that’s the greatest emotional intelligence lesson of all that love works best when it’s given freely, received openly, and never used as a leash.

If you’ve ever had a pet, a street cat, or a community of animals that became your family, you’ll know what I mean. And I’d love to know what’s one thing an animal has taught you about love?