Two Legs, One Animal

When my cat Inky and I became each other

It started as a bone-deep ache where the back of my right thigh meets its respective butt cheek. By Day 3, my sciatic nerve was smoldering all the way to my foot. When, on Day 5, I twisted before the bathroom mirror, anticipating only the glory of my naked butt, I was shocked to see clusters of red pinpricks. I Googled “sciatica + rash” and—oh shit, shingles!

Yes, shingles is every bit as horrid as they say. No, I wasn’t vaccinated because I thought shingles was for old people and I thought I wasn’t old yet. (If you’re putting off the vaxx like I did, the drawings below might give you pause.)

"Shingles Leg" and "One Nerve," cropped funny because Substack galleries do that.

Or paws. The shingles had appeared on the 18th birthday of my cat Domino, May 7, 2024. While the scabs were still healing, my eight-month-old kitten, Inky, began to lick the back of his left leg in earnest, cutting out a swath of fur in a vertical stripe. We tested his skin for infection and infestations; we tried antibiotics, antihistamines, hypoallergenic diets of exotic and unpalatable meats. “Fur mowing,” his vet called it: an OCD behavior that releases dopamine, like the feline version of a kinky scarification practice. The vet inquired about his stress levels and prescribed Prozac.

Left: Fur mowing. Right: The donut thingy didn't stop Inky from teasing his elder sister Domino, who was not amused.

But Inky seemed unflappable, despite a stressful debut on this planet. A few months before, my girlfriend had glimpsed the tiny black furball jumping into the wheel well of my car on a cold winter afternoon. Turned out he was sleeping in car engines to stay warm; he’d popped out from under a hood and “scared the bejesus outta” one neighbor.

I lured the scrappy stray back to my garden, where he bonded with my right leg immediately (foreshadowing!). My plan was to keep him (already “Inky” in my mind) for one night, and one night only, while searching for his owner. I knew Domino would not approve. But Inky slept on my neck all night, his purr vibrating almost imperceptibly, and I was a goner.

Me as Goner and Leg as Tree Trunk

He’d stayed chill through his adventures in automotive living, through the hisses and swats of a reluctant older sister. But now he was ripping out his own fur. Despite his concerning diagnosis, I didn’t want to put a kitten on psychotropics. I thought we could find another way.

Meanwhile, my shingles scars were fading, but the nerve remained disturbed—a violin string that, when played, would screech for a while. It occurred to me that Inky and I made two halves of a mirrored whole. We were one animal, in a way.

“One Animal”

I’ve written about somatic empathy here before—the phenomenon of sharing physical sensations and symptoms with another living being whom you’re closely connected to. I’d experienced this with my father and with Domino. I’d also felt merged in a visceral way with bees, wolves, and bears and even with an orb weaver spider I’d taken into my home. If I could have soothed my sore nerve with my sandpaper tongue, I would have. Maybe Inky was doing that for me.

In my memoir-in-progress, Disordered Blood, I’m investigating how and why somatic empathy appears in my life. Ecstatic trance is one catalyst: In my Ritual Posture practice with teachers from CUYA, I shapeshift into animals on the regular. So it wasn’t a surprise when, in a trance session around this time, I had the experience of becoming Inky. As I delighted in my cat-body abilities—climbing the peach tree, surveying the neighborhood from our roof—the real-life Inky scratched at the garden door so insistently, I had to break trance to let him in.

In my trance notebook, I wrote, “I was aware that my hind left leg was stripped of fur, and my back human leg needed healing too. And the fur and nerve cells regenerated in a slow wave moving from the tops of the legs down to my paws/feet.”

"Becoming Inky" and a fluffy-butt "After" pic

After the session, I found Inky curled on my bed, displaying his soft belly for pets. In my voice reserved for small creatures, I told him he didn’t need to lick his leg so hard any more.

And what’s crazy is, he stopped. He stopped! Within a couple weeks of that trance session, his fur had grown back in and no visible line remained.

And though I still can’t wear tight jeans or sit cross-legged, my post-herpetic nerve sensitivity is no big deal anymore. I imagine that in time, it will fade completely. I have a small feline to thank for that.

P.S. Blood Lines just turned one year old! Thank you all for taking the time to read it and post such thoughtful comments. To celebrate with me, I invite you to share it with a friend!