The Jumping Cat

On grandkids and unexpected friendship

Zorro is our jumping cat.

I discovered this two days ago.

Remy and I were sheltering from the rain under the carport.
To pass the time we began rolling macadamia nuts down the sloping concrete floor.

Zorro watched one roll past his paws.

Then he sprang half a metre into the air.

Remy and I burst out laughing.

For the next few minutes we took turns imitating Zorro’s jump.
Arms up, knees high, terrible cat impressions.

More laughter.

Two hours later we were inside. Different room. Different moment.

Remy suddenly looked at me…
and did the jump again.

So I jumped.

And off we went again. Jumping. Laughing. Replaying the moment.

Remy doesn’t talk yet.

But we were clearly doing what friends do — reliving something that had made us laugh.

Somewhere in that moment I realised something.

We had become friends.

That thought stayed with me for the rest of the day.

When my daughters were growing up, we had wonderful fun together. They’ll tell you that themselves.

But I was their dad.

And dads are authority figures.

You can laugh with a boss.
You can enjoy a boss.

But you’re rarely friends with a boss.

Then it hit me.

Grandparents have no authority.

We’re not responsible for discipline or rules or homework.

We’re just… there.

Maybe that’s why this feels different.

I wasn’t looking for a new friend.

But I think I’ve found one.

All I did was show up in his life and be there.

There’s a lot of talk right now about a loneliness epidemic.

Young people.
Older people.

It makes me wonder if sometimes the friendships we need most are already sitting right beside us.

We just haven’t recognised them yet.