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I was not, at this point in my life, a cat person.

My second night on duty, I had just arranged my 6’8”, 275 pound self onto the 6 foot stretcher, and my poncho liner on top of me, when I heard the quiet padding of little feet come into the room. Somehow, I had missed seeing exactly how my visitor had come in. I would find out later it was a small corner panel of wall in the room that was easily pushed aside by a four-legged creature weighing about 12 pounds. Thanks engineers!

I stood up, turned the light on and tried to shoo what turned out to be a cat, away. I offered him an opportunity to leave out the front door, but instead, he sat and stared at me. I decided I would put aside my distaste and allergy for the night and lay back down on the stretcher. Within seconds, the cat had jumped from his corner on the floor to the desk and directly onto my chest. He splayed out in record time and nearly simultaneously began to purr as loudly as the large Iraqi guard who gave me lamb kebabs and was generally asleep by 7 p.m. at his duty desk.

Despite the conditions and the isolation, as well as a horrible sneezing cough that persisted for about an hour after I woke up, those nights with that random, scarred and often scabbed cat on my chest, were the best nights of sleep I ever got in Baghdad. Could the cat have reasonably protected me if the al Qaeda or JAM hordes attacked? Certainly not, but for a couple of hours one night a week, I was secure, safe and loved with 12 pounds of mangy Baghdad kitty on top of me.

Source: The Huffington Post

11 March 2 Permalink

- Mason Cooley

19 September 7 Permalink