I have a friend who appears without warning, leaves without explanation, and never promises to return. He is profoundly unpredictable, given that he is a neighbourhood cat—but are the movements of human friends any more certain?
Manchego, lovingly nicknamed by my roommate Katie, is a beloved member of the Milton-Parc community. You’ve probably seen him on his daily patrol, climbing up fences and over mounds of misplaced recycling in his ceaseless hunt for adventure and affection. And while you may even have been lucky enough to have pet the soft orange fur of his ears or hear the hum of his impressively loud purrs, my Reddit research on r/mcgill has informed me that recurrent encounters with him are a rarity. So it is with a hint of pride that I admit he visits me often, meowing needily at the patio door until I crack it open for him to slip inside.
While I imagine many of you are suppressing a bit of jealousy, (accurately) imagining this gentle ball of fur falling asleep on my chest or climbing on my shoulders while I make breakfast, I must also admit that his visits do not come without their inconveniences.
Manchego’s roguish explorations of the Montreal wilderness leave his paws perpetually muddy, poised to leave their mark on every surface he touches. And sometimes, much to Katie’s dismay, Manchego arrives with an unannounced plus-one, his standoffish brother who sours the scene with an unmistakable feline disinterest. Most unenviable of all, however, are the inexorable itchy hives that cover my skin after each of Manchego’s visits—though I occasionally escape with the lesser sentence: hours of red, watering eyes.
And yet, this unappealing list has never once deterred me from letting Manchego in. Of course, each hassle could be largely mitigated by limiting our time together. I could open the door only just before laundry day, or when I’m feeling gracious enough to endure the unwelcome guest he brings, or on days when I can recover from an allergic reaction at home instead of sniffling through my classes. But, acutely aware that I cannot anticipate his next appearance, I always unlock the door.
It strikes me that I have granted this unpredictable feline friend a courtesy I have withheld from my more predictable companions. Trusting that they will remain, I have deferred their invitations, mistaking postponement for prudence. Armed with a litany of surmountable—albeit valid—excuses, I’ve ignored the fact that their presence is a brief and fragile gift.
Our loved ones will not always be available on our schedule. They may move to a new city, study abroad for a semester, accept a demanding job, or enter a relationship that takes up much of their time. The circumstances that bring us together are neither fixed nor guaranteed; they are contingent, unfolding, and often fleeting. For that reason, they are indelibly precious.
To be present with another person is to accept a measure of unpredictability—to make room for interruption and mess. To love people well is to resist the illusion that there will always be another opportunity at a more convenient time. When we enact patterns of postponements, we gradually stretch our presence into absence. Presence, then, is not merely a matter of physical nearness but of orientation. It’s the willingness to turn toward another person whenever the moment permits it. It is a form of attention, but also a form of faith—faith in the worth of ordinary moments. It is a belief that spontaneous participation is what gives a relationship its substance.
