There have been many changes, I am certain, to Cammie’s psyche since her blindness, but one I have noticed particularly has been that she now and then wakes from a slumber with a small, hoarse cry. It may be that she has been dreaming, perhaps of something startling. I expect her sight is whole in her dreams, but may be affected by her current darkness to make some weird and unsettling half-world.
I recall that Tungsten had nightmares periodically, though she would usually call out after she had woken; she wanted to know that I was present. She would start purring when I came to her and told her everything was all right. I can’t expect Cammie to sleep completely untroubled when she has gone through such a traumatic alteration in her life. But, like her late sister, the princess too seems comforted by my assurances that all is well, once she is conscious. She purrs then.
I worry that she is frightened from her sleep while I am absent. To be scared by a nightmare, only to wake to darkness in which any danger might lurk hidden, must be daunting indeed. But I like to think that Cammie knows that she is safe in her home, and the only real hazard is bumping into another cat unseen and unprepared. I talk more now that she is sightless; when I walk into a room in which she is lying, I tell her so, and before I pet her, I let her smell my fingers, and brush her whiskers; petting her suddenly is a bit of a jolt for her, I have observed.
So her adjustment continues. It may be a lifelong struggle to cope with her new world. But she still purrs, still lies on my chest – when she knows I am beside her – and enjoys being stroked and petted, perhaps more than she ever did. Her sleep may be troubled every so often, but I hope that her waking life still has some light in it.