My love for Omar was carefully premeditated. Before I met him, I knew I wanted to love him.
I often imagined all the loving ways I’d treat him, long before we met. It felt so real. It was a fact: I was going to do everything I could to make Omar feel truly loved.
And so we met. I remember that fateful Saturday. I had been pondering the idea of adopting a pet for months. But that Saturday, I found myself on a train to another city to pick up my new friend.
Our first days together were not the most pleasant. Most days, I had to defend myself just trying to take care of Omar. He did not appreciate the charisma. He was careful in his ways, studied me for weeks. Omar respected my space—or rather, feared for his. He never got close, and he didn’t allow me to get close either. I fed him from a distance—food he didn’t accept for the first three days. Perhaps he thought of it as a bribe. The scars on my hands tell that story better.
My friends did not like Omar at all — and some have only barely grown to accept him. It was ‘toxic.’ It became harder to prove that this was good for me — that a pet was good for me — and that Omar would come around. His love didn’t have to be obvious; sometimes it looked like hissing, hiding, and the occasional scratch.
.
Several months passed before Omar allowed me near him. He’d play with the toys I set out for him. He was happier, and something magical started to happen. He’d sit a little closer and lean in to be petted. I thought of this as accepting the love.
Omar now meows when I get home, runs to me, and snuggles next to me. I still don’t fully understand what he’s saying, but I choose to believe he misses me when I’m gone. And now, if I lock him out of a room, he cries until I open the door. That’s how I know he doesn’t mind my company —and maybe he kinda, sorta, somewhat likes me too.
