Love, loss, and a kitten called Iggy

One of Iggy's first photos

One of Iggy’s first photos

In the last months, I’ve slowly started to open up like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon. In short, I’ve let myself love.

As they say, better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all, but I am left wondering at the ferocity of my emotions and the Iguazu tears that fall at often awkward moments.

Iggy came into my life just last Friday. Iggy (*Ignacia) I worked out couldn’t have been more than 10-14 days old when I found her. She had been abandoned in the Municipal Plaza and I spotted her tiny five-inch frame curled up in a ball on the ground. I asked the groundskeeper about her, and he told me to take her with me, or she would likely die.

There’s nothing scarier than the question and answer: “Is she a girl?”, “Ah, that’s probably why they threw her away.”

Iggy became a metaphor for my life in Paraguay over those days. I cried, marveled at her progress, agonized over whether to feed her more or less. I called the vet and he gave me instructions: 2mls of milk, a tiny bit of egg, and a touch of sugar every few hours for energy, administered through a syringe because her little mouth was still too small for a bottle. I recorded her progress on Instagram, Facebook, on my phone and in a little video. I took her photo with every camera lens I have. I declared my love for her, our relationship was Facebook official, and I organised her forever home, which would be with one of my music students Rosa. The few times she really enjoyed her food were the cutest to watch. As she got her fill, her little eyes closed with bliss, her mouth would open as she suckled, she would start to purr, and her tiny little claws would contentedly knead my skin or her blanket. Continue reading