Sarah’s Story

My heart and spirit are broken. Three days ago, on November 12, 2025, Rob and I made the excruciatingly humane decision to say goodbye to our beloved kitty, Sarah.

Baby picture of Sweet Sarah
October 2009

Sarah was 16 years old. Despite a weight loss that began during Covidtimes when her favorite foods were not available (stupid pandemic), bloodwork confirmed she was holding strong and steady in July. She was happy, alert, engaged, tail up, the center of so many daily routines and rituals. She was integral to our life at Woodhaven. And it shatters me to write about her in the past tense. The house is deafeningly quiet and still without her.

When we took her in for a follow-up exam on October 21 to check on some new thyroid medication, we were shocked to discover Sarah’s kidneys were showing signs of distress.

The weeks since then were filled with an ultrasound, blood-draws, two different antibiotics, probiotics, an appetite stimulant, a switch to kidney-friendly kibble, daily subcutaneous fluids (not a skill we wanted to learn and yet…), constipation, diarrhea, a painkiller that traumatically made her fall over while just sitting in a shoebox, 3 water bowls for easy access, a very busy litter box, and so much stress, worry, hope, and dread.

We all fought so hard.

But it became mournfully clear that we could not cure our Sarah. And all efforts to keep her going would be for our benefit, not hers. So with the deepest love for our beloved kitty, and with profound respect for our responsibility in being her people, we let Sarah go.

The ache is deep and visceral. My whole body, spirit, and heart hurt. I have been magnetically drawn to cats since early childhood. My soul requires cats to be a part of my life. With Woodhaven now catless, I am adrift.

Our last morning together.

If you had told me six years ago that I would be weeping over the loss of Sarah, I would have been utterly confused. Because until five years ago – when Sarah’s brother Zak unexpectedly died – Sarah was a completely different cat. I loved her but I didn’t feel very close to her. After she and Zak grew out of their kittenhood, Sarah barely let me touch her. She was always with Rob, if she was with anyone. Mostly Sarah kept a wary distance from everyone and everything. We just thought she was skittish. It turns out she sort of hated her brother.

Tiny kittens! Zak on the left, Sarah on the right.

Zak and Sarah were best buds for the first year or so. They snuggled, they played, they stayed near each other, they bonded with us and each other. When we brought them home on October 5, 2009, Sarah was the first one out of the carrier. She was bold, curious, and confident. Zak was a bit of a lumbering doofus, super sweet, full of purrs, and always wanting to be where things were happening. He often followed Sarah to make sure he wasn’t missing out on anything. He was the ultimate FOMO (fear of missing out) Cat.

Sarah boldly checking out the kitchen
Zak following (left bottom corner)

As the kittens grew bigger, Zak was much larger than Sarah. 16 sturdy pounds of fluff, Zak walked like a linebacker. Sarah was five pounds smaller and – we realized after Zak died – intimidated and unintentionally bullied by Zak. Sarah lived on edge because she never knew when Zak would want her toy or her food or her person. Zak gravitated towards me, so Sarah avoided me. For about 10 years, I was very close to Zak and appreciated Sarah from a distance. It felt like we had 1.5 cats instead of 2.

Sarah in front on left, Zak behind
Photo taken in August 2016 
They were 7 years old.

In just a matter of days after Zak died after Thanksgiving in 2020, Sarah began blossoming into a new kitty. By the time Christmas arrived, Sarah was transformed.

Beautiful Sarah enjoying being an only kitty
December 2020

Apparently confident her annoying brother was not returning, Sarah relaxed. She was happy, calm, and present. She sat on laps, greeted visitors, allowed me to brush her, and became so snuggly. For the past five years, Sarah lived her best kitty life. Although Zak’s death was a storm of shock and despair, it brought the rainbow of a beautifully peaceful and happy life for Sarah. I am so grateful for rainbows.

And that’s been a bit of a surprise the past few days – the immensity of the gratitude.

I am heartbroken and shattered into a million pieces to never have my Little Girl on my lap again. To feel her warm tummy vibrating on my legs, to feel her head lean into my hand as I scritch her chin, to feel her stretch her front paws with a satisfied sigh as she rearranges herself for the second act of Nap Time, to put off switching laundry loads or making dinner because Sarah is happily on my lap and you simply do not accomplish things when a cat bestows that gift upon you.

Sarah became a football fan
Lots of lap time

But even stronger than the sadness of never feeling Sarah on my lap again is the gratitude.

I am so grateful Rob and I got to be Sarah’s people.

I am grateful she trusted us and felt loved and safe when she took her last breath on my lap.

I am grateful I got 5 years to bond more deeply and fully with her.

I am grateful for that one white whisker she had as a kitten that allowed us to easily tell our black kitties apart, and allowed them to quickly learn their names.

It was the only white whisker she ever had.

I am grateful for her magnificent tail that was a fountain of fluff that curled forward and touched her head when she was happy.

Occasionally referred to as her Teapot Tail

I am grateful for her beautiful aquamarine eyes that slowly blinked back love when I would give her cat kisses by doing the same.

One of our all-time favorite Sarah photos
Those eyes! That tongue!

I am grateful for the videos and photos I have of Sarah’s sweetly fun need to lick condensation off of Rob’s water cups.

Her love of condensation started
very early. Also, she was clearly
our cat! Click here to see
a video of 12-year-old Sarah
enjoying Rob's water cup.

I am grateful that I finally found her favorite toy a few weeks ago after the beloved Potato Head went missing for two panicked weeks.

Potato Head started off with a black cap attached
to a fishing line on a wand. The cap made it 
look like Mr. Potato Head and the name stuck
long after the cap, fishing line, and wand
disappeared. Photo taken June 2022.

I am grateful for our amazing house sitter, Willow, whom Sarah loved and who took some of the best photos ever of our girl.

I can hear this photo! 

 

That tail again! And those eyes!

Willow was crocheting and decided to see if
Sarah would model a coaster. This photo
proves how much Sarah loved Willow.

I am grateful for our dear friend Cathy, who was Sarah’s doctor and helped us surround Sarah with love and prayers as we said goodbye.

I am grateful that God and the Holy Spirit spoke to me as they do and gave me perfect peace that Sarah is so good where she is now and that everything’s gonna be alright.

Most of all, though, I am profoundly grateful for the tears. So very many tears. Because the tears are a direct reflection of the love. I am grateful I opened my heart fully to love Sarah even though I knew a day like Wednesday was eventually likely to happen.

And in the midst of this full-body ache of grief and sadness and longing, I know I will open my heart fully again. When Rob and I are both ready, I will once again open my heart and home to another pair of kittens, offering a life filled with love and treats and laps and the commitment to always do what is best for them. 

Regardless of how much it hurts.

Photo taken Oct 20 -- the day before
the appointment that revealed her
kidney issues.

Rest in peace, Little Girl. We love you so very much.

Some best friends have paws

It's been a week.  A very long week.  A week of many tears.  A week of realizations.  A week of adjustments.  A week of gratitude.  A week of memories.  

I process life through words.  And so these are my words to try to grapple with the loss of a beloved friend.  Yes, a friend with whiskers and paws.  But a friend with a devotion for which I will be forever grateful. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Zak was my insomnia buddy.  If I woke up in the middle of the night – as I often do – he would wake up with me and keep me company on the couch, making the dark, quiet house so much less lonely.

He was my morning lap buddy. A typical morning, Rob and I would wake up and make our way to our living room.  Within minutes, our laps were filled with cat.  Sarah would hop on and off Rob’s lap, as she prefers snuggles in 10-minute chunks.  Zak would barely wait for me to get my recliner footrest up and my legs covered in his favorite blanket before he would jump up and take over my lap for at least a half hour.

He was my surgery buddy.  He saw me through a knee surgery, a foot surgery, a hysterectomy, and two dental surgeries.  He would stay close and keep me company.  He was not fazed by the walker or knee scooter or fancy ice-water-pumping contraption.  Truly, the only thing that seemed to bother him was my protective placement of pillows around surgery sites to guard against his 15lbs of TLC.

He loved his tuffet.  It is just a brown Sherpa blanket from Costco, but it was royalty to Zak.  He would sit on it by himself, kneading it and covering it with happy drool.  But his most favorite…among the many joys he lived for…was to have a person under his tuffet.  Draping the tuffet over your lap was a surefire way to have Zak join you for belly rubs and purring.  He loved to snuggle up in the folds of the tuffet, demanding rubs and scritches.  I often had to reposition parts of the tuffet because it got all wet with his mouth dripping joy.

His tail was spectacular.  If he was walking, the tail was always…ALWAYS…straight up in Happy Tail Position.  His tail was tall and so very fluffy.  It had a tiny crook in it, at the very tip.  Maybe a half-inch bent at a 45 degree angle.  We have no idea when or how that happened, but at night, if we were joined by Cat and weren’t sure which one it was, we could find the tail and feel for that crook to know it was Zak.  That crook, and the straight-up tail happiness reminded me of a drum major hat’s feathery pompom.  So often, I would see just the top of Zak’s tail walking behind a coffee table or over the edge of the bed and it made me smile that Zak was leading a band of pure happy.

Zak was a big kitty (15 lbs.) and an even bigger personality.  He was totally extroverted and loved people and life and toys and food and windows and blankets. He was a literally heavy cat but his spirit was light and playful and curious and eager for adventure.  But he was also totally laidback and easygoing.  We often said he was actually a big orange tabby in a black suit. 

His paws were huge.  He could catch flies merely by placing a pancake paw on top of the poor thing.  He let us play with his paws, fingering the tufts of fur between the pads.  And he was very accommodating when it was time to give him a pawdicure.  I simply needed to let him sniff the nail clippers, then hoist him into my lap in a sitting position like a person sitting in a chair.  I was able to hold each paw and clip his nails in less than about 3 minutes.  He didn’t really like being trapped – he loved his freedom – but he was always an agreeable client.

As much as he sort of bulldozed through life, Zak was also polite.  In the middle of the night, he would come into our bedroom and come to my side of the bed and gently meow with a hopeful expectation.  If I didn’t answer, he would pad away and try again in a few minutes.  If I quietly chirped back, Zak would excitedly jump on the bed and walk all over me until he found just the right position to let me rub his belly.

Zak loved belly rubs.  To the point that if he was laying on his side and you tried to pet him, he would twist and contort and snatch your hand between his front paws to trap them over his tummy.  Never with claws and never with aggression, but always with determination and instruction.

He was a toy hog.  If we were playing with Sarah, Zak would decide that her toy must be better than his so he would simply take over.  We found the only way we could play with Sarah was to either exhaust Zak first or play with them in separate rooms.  But even in separate rooms, Zak would eventually get curious about all the fun playing noises coming from the other room and suddenly Rob and I found ourselves switching cats.

Zak was the King of FOMO.  He loved life and people and didn’t want to miss a single thing.  His Fear Of Missing Out meant he showed up whenever the doorbell rang or a toy was offered or a couch was audibly sat on or the door from the garage was opened or the treat canister was opened or one of us moved to a new room.  Zak was always present, which makes his sudden absence so wrenching.

He was our greeter.  Taking the reins from Brad, Zak eventually became Woodhaven’s Ambassador.  If someone came to the front door, Zak would eagerly trot to the entry way and position himself on the carpet behind us.  He would sit expectantly, eager to see who was arriving to say hello to him.  He would always need to sniff a hand first, but then his head was fair game for anyone who wanted to give his soft head a greeting.  I absolutely love Pam’s description: “When we would come for a visit he would present himself as lord of the manor welcoming his guests. Swiping a leg here a hand there with his most magnificent head and tail.”

Zak loved football.  And Fraiser.  And The Brady Bunch.  And The Amazing Race.  And Open Worship (Quaker-speak for communal meditation). He loved anything that caused Rob and me to snuggle up on the couch together for extended periods of time, Tuffet draped over me, my hand ready and available for slightly distracted belly rubs and head scritches.

He was our dinner visitor when we ate in the Lounge.  Usually about mid-way through dinner, Zak would casually wander in and position himself between our two chairs.  He was never offered human food, so he wasn’t there for treats.  He was there for attention.  I would try to get a head rub in before he flopped down to present his tummy.  Rob’s arms are longer, so Rob would be in charge of the belly rubs while I sat there and watched, smiling at our wonderfully goofy and predictable kitty.

We had a season…of almost three years…of poop.  Poop outside the litter box.  Poop on carpets in our dining room and bedroom and bathroom.  Behavior that was a medical issue that took a long time to decipher.  During that time, we worked diligently with our vet with tests and exams and diets and supplements.  Our moods would rise and fall on where and when Zak pooped.  We have a ream of monthly calendars tracking where, when, and who poop happened.  We hired a Cat Behaviorist who enlightened us on the World of Litterboxes.  For over a year and a half, we had five litterboxes in our house – including two in our formal dining room, one in our bedroom, and one in our bathroom.  We were stressed and exhausted and frustrated and resentful.  We had tough conversations and such horribly conflicted emotions.  And then a desperate plea to God in the middle of the night resolved the matter in less than a week with the trial of a not-often-used medication.  That medication gave Zak his quality of life back.  That medication gave us our kitty and our uncomplicated love for him back. 

We started Zak’s medication about one month before the COVID-19 endless season of quarantine began in March of 2020.  Sooo many times during our extended staycation, I said out loud how grateful I was that the Poop Issue had been resolved before quarantine.  So grateful that the four of us were spending long hours together in our home without my ears tuned for scratching on the carpet to cover up errant poop.  So grateful that we were just happily hanging out together as a family, enjoying the gift of time and waiting. 

He had favorite spots to sleep.  The top of the circle scratching post in our bedroom that was entirely too small for him.  Under the table in our Lounge, often when Sarah was nearby in her wooden wine box.  On the couch – either end, as long as it was against pillows.  On the small guest room bed, snuggled up against the pillows on the right side.  On the fuzzy blanket on our bed at the foot of Rob’s side.  On the comfy alpaca blanket under our coffee table. On the futon in our study, forever covered in black fuzz because he was the only one who used it. Recently the floor of our walk-in closet, for no discernable reason.  And always in cardboard boxes. His favorite was a large Blind Onion Pizza box we got extra for him, reinforced with masking tape at the corners to manage his girth.

A friend passed along a story about the connection between pets and their people.  The story said that when we choose to bring a pet into our lives, we choose tears.  Tears because it is very probable that we will outlive our furkids and one day be forced to endure the searing pain and devastation of their loss. When we had to put our beloved cat Brad down, I cried for days.  More tears and with more agony that I have cried over people. But in the midst of the tears was gratitude.  I realized that tears of sorrow are actually a gift and a reflection of having given your heart to someone. Sobbing uncontrollably is exhausting, but it would be so much more devastating not to have any tears at all.  Zak was deeply loved, with wads of kleenex all over the house as unnecessary proof.

He was the Best Cat Ever and my buddy.  I am devastated that he is gone.  I love you, Zak.  Thank you for choosing me as your person.

Loving Zak

I had the most remarkable dream last night.  A dream unlike I have ever had.  A dream just hours after learning that my beloved 11-year-old cat Zak died suddenly, most likely of a heart attack.  I was not with Zak when he died.  He was at a “luxury cat boarding” facility, a facility we had only used once before.  Zak and Sarah were there so Rob and I could quarantine on the Oregon coast in celebration of our anniversary later this week.

In my dream, Rob and I were in our living room.  It was filled with soft, natural, bright light that was white like it was reflecting fog outside.  I didn’t look out the large windows to notice the weather.  But I did notice that the light in one of Zak’s favorite rooms was relaxing and calming and peaceful.

Rob was in his recliner.  I was uncharacteristically sitting on the floor in front of my recliner.  Sarah, our girl cat, came into the living room, happy tail and ready to eat.  I smiled and said to Rob, “I guess she is going to be ok.” 

Sarah and Zak had never been apart for more than an overnight stay when Sarah got spayed.  They were litter mates and life has always included the other.  In my dream, I was clearly aware that Zak was dead and our concern was now how Sarah would respond.

As I relaxed watching Sarah’s accepting demeanor, Zak appeared from around Rob’s chair.  He nonchalantly but purposefully walked behind me, brushing his 15lbs of fur and girth against my back.  As Zak jumped up on the couch in front of me, I looked at Rob, astonished.

“Amazing things can be done with the right equipment,” he shrugged with a smile.

I immediately popped up off the floor and joined Zak on the couch.  He was now stretched out, presenting his belly for rub, a request that happened multiple times daily in real life.

As I moved in to start petting Zak, I turned my head and looked at Rob.

“This is a dream, isn’t it?”

Rob didn’t say a word but his resigned but encouraging face confirmed my statement and urged me to take advantage of this very literal answer to prayer.

I began to run my fingers through Zak’s dense, soft black fur.  He was warm and silky.  As I ran my fingers over his sturdy body, I gathered up fur between my fingers like a hair stylist does when they are getting ready to trim. 

I spoke to Zak.  I told him I loved him and that he was an amazing cat and that we were so lucky to be his people.  I told him I was seeing him right now because God was answering my prayer just hours before, a prayer that I got to see Zak one last time, to touch him one last time, to talk to him one last time, to love him in the flesh one last time.  One last time so that my last memory of Zak wasn’t the frantic phone call from Jo at the cat boarding place, hysterical with words I never want to hear again.

I got to be with Zak on our couch for only a few minutes.  He rolled around and purred and made sure I scritched all the right spots.  He let me love him and he loved me right back.  I soaked in the moments, entirely present with Zak while also entirely aware this was a dream.  And a gift.

As Zak rolled his head upside down so I could scratch under his chin, his face changed from pure black to white and gray.  I was staring at his newly grey nose when the dream ended and I woke up.

I absolutely believe that God answers our prayers.  Every time.  Often the answer is “no” or “not yet” so it seems like he’s not listening or not really there.  But then there are times when he answers “yes” almost immediately, in a way even better than what we asked for, in a way that envelopes us in his love and his exactly right care for us.

Thank you, God.  Thank you creating Zak.  Thank you for allowing Rob and me to be his people. Thank you for the perfect answer to my prayer.  Thank you for love.

 

Zak 11 years ago, clearly taking over

The best lap kitty

A hunter and a toy hog

The whole poop and nothing but the poop

I am determined not to believe in jinxes. I’m reluctant to think I have that much influence over The Universe. Nevertheless, I am a little twitchy about writing out loud here about a situation we’ve been dealing with at Woodhaven for three freakin’ years. A situation that, Lord willing, might finally be resolved. Fingers, toes, and paws crossed.

At the risk of tempting the Jinx Fates…that really do not exist but nonetheless warrant capitalizing…today we are going to be discussing cat poop.

WAIT! Don’t leave! I promise it won’t be icky or graphic. And there might be some unexpected insights along the way. Here’s a picture of our adorable leading characters to entice you to stay:

Sarah and Zak the morning after we brought them home.
Dawwwww!!!  =^..^=

Rob and I adopted Zak and Sarah as tiny little fuzzballs in October 2009. We had put our beloved 15-year-old Brad down a few months earlier and soon realized our house was much too quiet. There’s just something special about the energy and comfort of little padded feet wandering about the house. Even at 3:00 in the morning after producing an impressively audible hairball. Ah, life with cats.

It wasn’t long before the sibling dynamics of our fur kids revealed themselves. Sarah is a bit dainty, skittish, is often the instigator of feline fusses and chases around the house, and is terrified of everyone on the planet except Rob. Sarah allows me to pet her maybe once per week, if I have pleased her in some way. She frequently brings me her favorite toy, with much chattery fanfare. Rob insists this is love.

Zak, on the other hand, loves the world and everyone in it. A true extrovert, he wants to meet and greet each visitor who drops by Woodhaven. He’s big and cuddly and purry. He is a toy hog and sometimes throws his weight around to get his needs met first. Zak loves laps, belly scritches, and football season (more time with us on the couch). I am his special person, which is a huge honor. Yes, Zak is my favorite. And Sarah couldn’t care less.

Up until about April 2017, life with Zak and Sarah was purrfect. They were great company, playful, entertaining, snuggly, and stayed off the tables and counters. They were wonderfully self-sufficient, as cats should be. They had food and water available 24-7, and we were diligent about keeping their sizable litter box clean. They allowed us the flexibility to travel on a whim for a few days, and enjoyed playing with neighbor kids who checked on them when we were on longer trips. Zak and Sarah had annual visits to the vet. They also had numerous casual checkups when our vet visited Woodhaven in the off-hours since Cathy was a personal friend before she became our vet, too. The kitties were healthy and happy and seemingly thriving at Woodhaven.

Sarah on the left, Zak on the right.  Good thing
Rob and I didn't need the couch that day.

And then one day, Zak confused the heck out of us. He pooped in the corner of our dining room, so very far away from the litter box.

Googling, phone calls, texts, and a vet appointment quickly ensued, launching one of the most surprisingly disruptive and anxiety-ridden seasons of our lives. A season rivaling spinal fusions, early retirement, family drama, and the death of Florence Henderson.

We quickly learned that while a cat peeing outside of the litter box is a behavioral issue (the cat is literally pissed at you), pooping inappropriately is almost always a medical or physical issue. So the good news is, Zak wasn’t making any poopy statements about our caretaking or housekeeping.

We soon rallied around the diagnosis of “constipation.” The thought was that Zak was either associating the pain of constipation with the litter box and therefore avoiding it in those times, or when he finally had to go, he had to go and couldn’t always get to his box in time. Additional water bowls were sprinkled around the house, canned food was added to the daily cuisine, laxatives were sneaked in.

Things improved. And then they didn’t.

X-rays, ultrasounds, fancy pre$cription kibble, and “fecal tests” were added to our repertoire. We started keeping a calendar of when and where Zak pooped. We bought new litter. We replaced the old litter box. One of us became a little OCD about cleaning the box and noting what was in it. We provided a litter box in Zak’s favorite room to poop on the carpet, rationalizing that we rarely eat in the formal dining room anyway. We found a house sitter, because now all travel – even one night away – required cat care to make sure Zak got the laxatives.

Slowly but steadily Rob and I began to feel trapped by our cat.

Our moods would rise and fall based on where Zak pooped. With a mother’s ears, I would bolt awake in the middle of the night when I heard any carpet being scratched. I began to resent no longer being able to spontaneously take little get-away trips. Our mornings and evenings became consumed with trying to convince Zak to eat all his food laced with Miralax. When Zak missed a day pooping, we tried to coax him into using the litter box with treats and encouraging words. Carpet cleaners and air fresheners were rarely put away. The stress was real. And it was getting to us.

In January 2019, we hit what I thought was rock bottom. Zak was pooping in various rooms around the house. We had two litter boxes in our dining room because Zak couldn’t decide which corner he liked best. I started to fantasize about not having Zak and his misplaced poop in our lives. Our vet was as frustrated as we were, perhaps even more so, that we had been tackling this issue for two years with only intermittent success.

Desperate, I did something I made fun of other pet owners for doing. Reeking of “first world problems,” I contacted an animal behaviorist. Short of consulting a pet psychic – another cat-centered fantasy -- it seemed our last hope.

Marci, a “certified feline behavior and training consultant” with some letters after her name, was highly recommended by several trusted cat people. Marci came to Woodhaven and spent several hours getting to know us, winning over Zak and Sarah, and listening with sincere interest to our woes of cat poop.

We learned some fascinating stuff from Marci. Like our main litter box in the laundry room under a table was in pretty much the worst possible location.

Cats like quiet places to do their business. They also prefer places that are “socially significant” and visited often by their humans since a litter box is almost a bulletin board of communication in the cat world. Also, since popping a squat is a bit of a vulnerable position, a cat prefers a spot that has at least two escape routes. They also want to be able to easily spy any predators (or two-legged creatures carrying dirty laundry) that might be encroaching on their me time.

So an occasionally noisy laundry room (no-no #1) with only one way out (no-no #2) that is only used once a week (no-no #3) and is on the opposite side of Woodhaven from where all the fun stuff happens (no-no #4) pretty much checked all the “Don’t” boxes for litter box placement. Seriously, we were lucky Sarah was still using it.

Under Marci’s tutelage, we soon had a new routine and an array of litter boxes in new places.

To help “keep things moving,” we instituted a nightly play time with fancy new toy$ featuring birds and mice. Canned food was served shortly afterwards to mimic the thrill of eating the spoils of the hunt.

We ditched some of the covered litter boxes we had and bought large, open storage totes that Rob cut access panels into. The litter box in the laundry room disappeared and was replaced by one litter box in an optimistically named “sun room” and one in our bathroom near our shower since that was a new favorite piece of carpet. Later, a box was added to our bedroom. For those of you scoring at home, we are up to five litter boxes for two cats…all boxes now in places we frequent. Which is so lovely and so dusty.

With all the changes, things went wonderfully. Zak was back on track, Rob and I were destressing, my resentment was quickly fading, and we were happily indirectly helping our house sitter purchase a new car. I wrote an enthusiastic testimonial for Marci’s website. Life was GREAT!

And then on September 30, 2019 – because I have three years of monthly calendars tracking Zak’s poopage – Zak pooped on the carpet again for the first time since January 25, 2019…because calendars.

Things got progressively worse. A couple times outside the box in October, a couple in November, a few more in December and January. In February (last month), Zak went on the carpet four times in ten days. And to add to the excitement, he was choosing new locations like right under our bed. Stress, anxiety, frustration, anger, resentment, helplessness. They all flooded back into Woodhaven.

Rob and I had a trip planned to visit his family. Before we left, Rob told me that while we were gone…away from the cats and the situation…we were going to need to have a serious and hard conversation about Zak’s future with us. I was heartbroken but I knew he was right. We needed to speak some hard truths to each other.

And so we did. Sitting on the bed in a Residence Inn not terribly far from Disneyland, we acknowledged the stress and mounting anxiety caused by the most amazing cat we’ve ever shared our lives with (sorry, Brad). We reviewed new texts from our house sitter about continued problems. We broached the idea of finding a better home for Zak, one that could roll with the poop punches better than we clearly were. We wondered about Sarah, if she would thrive without Zak’s large presence and personality, or if she would be lost without her brother and would be better off being with Zak wherever he went.

My gut ached and my throat clenched holding back tears as Rob and I talked. I couldn’t let go of the fact that we made a commitment to these kittens when we adopted them almost 11 years ago. Although we didn’t speak vows, my heart brought the kittens into our lives for better or for worse. Rehoming Zak – and potentially Sarah with him – would feel like a betrayal…of them, of their trust, of our commitment, of our responsibilities.

But on the other side of that was the human toll. Rob and I have not been thriving the past few months. Woodhaven has not been a haven, it has not been peaceful. Sleep has been spotty and interrupted. Fuses have been worn and frayed. Daydreams of a different, less encumbered life have been distracting and their mere existence disheartening.

And so, in the middle of a sleepless, desperate night in that same bed near Disneyland, I did the only thing left to do. I prayed and seriously and completely gave the situation to God.

With quiet tears as Rob snored next to me, I told God I couldn’t do it anymore. I was out of ideas and I was out of hope. “So, God, I’m giving this to you to solve.”

I have to say, as much as I rely on the Holy Spirit to guide me through life and decisions, it’s very rare for me to completely bow out. I think this might have been only the second time I have ever handed something fully over to God and sat back and watched. It’s a scary proposition, letting go of any control and simply waiting to be led.

A few minutes later, some lyrics to a church song popped into my head. A song I don’t hear very often; one I don’t have on my playlist. The lyrics were “Step by step You’ll lead me.” Those words have been my mantra for the past month.

Those words calmed me when our flight home was delayed and we missed our hastily-made vet appointment. They assured me when we had to wait a week for a rescheduled appointment. They directed me when another test and then a procedure were suggested. They prompted me when a rarely used but potentially effective medication was recommended. They restored my hope when the medication started to work.

It has been just three weeks since we embarked on this new path with Zak. A path with a new leader. This season has been one that I have been reluctant to share because, well, who really wants to talk about cat poop. But somehow, in the midst and maybe now hopefully at the end of the story, there have been lessons about hope and trust and commitment. And that is worth sharing.

At least two creatures were stirring

If you are on my Christmas card list, you already know how I spent a recent Saturday afternoon.

Back in 1993, when our new kitten Brad was just five months old, I got the brilliant idea to take advantage of “Photos with Santa!” day at the local pet store. I accessorized our small black ball of fur with a dashing red bow tie and innocently took him to Petco. There, a teenage boy had drawn the short straw at the team meeting before the store opened and was thus swimming in a large synthetic Santa outfit. Although the picture is adorably snuggly, if you knew Brad, you recognized that bright-eyed look not as dreamy hopes of catnip in his stocking but rather calculated strategizing about which aisle to escape down. I proudly framed the Polaroid photo as soon as I got home and it has been prominently displayed every Christmas since.

So when I was in our local PetSmart around Thanksgiving (I seem to visit weekly just cuz), I clapped with glee when I saw a poster announcing “Photos with Santa!” days all through December. Rob looked at me with a raised eyebrow and then sighed. “I can’t stop you, can I?”

While purchasing yet another kitten toy whose lifespan was ultimately measured in seconds, I grilled the cashier about the upcoming photo shoot. “Can I bring a kitten? How about two kittens? Where do you take the photos, in case my kittens want to ‘explore’ the store? When is the best time to come to avoid long lines filled with scary dogs?”

I eyed the holiday pet accessories carefully. Bow ties would be so cute! But all I could find were elf collars and fuzzy boas and other $8 items that would only distract the kittens as they set out to destroy them. Rob patted down his feathers as I concluded I would just take the kittens as they were, in their frayed and chewed kitten collars.

Armed with knowledge, I made plans to go late in the day on the first day of pictures. I asked a similarly crazy cat lady if she would like to join me to help wrangle Zak and Sarah. To the raised eyebrow of her husband, she purred at the opportunity and we made plans to wear snaggable clothes and bring cameras.

When Barbara and I arrived at the store, one very large, very resigned tabby was getting his picture taken. He squirmed a bit to save face with the kittens caged nearby ready for adoption, but all in all he seemed like he’d been through this drill before. Nobody was in line and no dogs were within barking range. I was very pleased with the accuracy of my insider info.

Santa – this time a middle-aged woman who seemed to be wondering if the employee discount was really worth it – shifted a bit when the photographer looked in my kennel and said, “Ooooh, TWO kittens!!” It was almost as if Santa were strategizing about which aisle to escape down.

There was much fussing and paper shuffling and memory card switching as Barbara and I stood there trying to convince Zak and Sarah that “Everything is just fine. This will be fun!” Taking a deep breath and obviously wanting to get this over with, Santa called out to the photography crew, “I’m ready for the kittens when you are.” And this is where the story gets sadly boring.

Barbara scooped up Sarah, I Zak, and we calmly handed them to Santa. She took one in each arm as the kittens tried to get their footing on her slippery red pants. They looked around, they tried to get comfortable, they sort of looked at the camera. They didn’t claw, they didn’t whine, they didn’t try to escape. I should have bought the elf collars.

After five photos in which they appear a lot bigger than they actually are (the camera always adds 10 pounds, right?), we put the kittens back in their kennel just as the next models arrived. While waiting for the Easy Share to print, I got my blog fodder.

I don’t know why they are so popular here, but yet again I found myself in the company of a ferret. And not just a ferret, a ferret in a dress. And not just a dress, a homemade dress. And not just a homemade dress, a homemade dress matching the homemade shirt worn by the ferret's best buddy…a fluffy slipper of a dog who was busy grooming the ferret.

Barbara kept an uneasy distance from the menagerie – she’s not much of a ferret fan – while I surreptitiously took a few photos. Naturally. And so with that, I leave you with this holiday classic:

Settle in for a long cat tale

It all started on August 2 when our friend Cathy caught me after church and asked, “How serious are you about adopting kittens?" “Very serious,” I told her, my eyes lit with curiosity. “Why?”

Just the day before, a momma cat and her litter of seven teeny tiny kittens had been left at the door of Cathy’s veterinary clinic. Cathy had been our beloved Brad’s vet and she witnessed and shared our heartbreak when he died last May. She invited us to come look at the kittens that were probably all of a week old and offered that if we were at least vaguely interested, we could put our names on a list to adopt one or some of them when they were ready. Until then, they would live at the clinic under the care of about 20 cat lovers. It was hard to imagine a better scenario. About 24 hours later, we were staring in awe at the sweetest momma cat and the tiniest kittens we’d ever seen. “Put us on the list!” I told Cathy. “You’re already at the top,” she replied with a knowing smile. All we had to do now was wait.

Two days later and for the next four Wednesdays, I visited the kittens and took lots of pictures. Rob and I were adamant that we weren’t just going to adopt just any ol’ random kitten. Instead, we wanted to wait until a kitten spoke to us in that new agey way. We wanted to feel a bond, a connection, a sense of “yep, this is the one.”

The more we talked, the more we really liked the idea of having two kittens. We had often thought it would have been fun to get Brad a kitten – a Nermal to his Garfield – but Brad was firmly an only kitty and we didn’t want to rock his world. But two kittens – littermates – brought home together seemed like far too much fun. Cathy suggested two boys as the best combination, followed by a boy and a girl. Much like humans, two girl cats can get a bit territorial and make life a bit difficult and hissy for those around them. So it was settled. We would get two brothers. And although I was trying really hard not to judge the kittens on looks, I was happy to see that only two of the kittens in the abandoned litter were almost entirely black like Brad. I really didn’t want another black boy kitty. Too ripe for comparisons.

The best laid plans.

Looking back at the weekly pictures, it was clear from the second visit that a little grey girl was crawling into our hearts. Sweet little face, friendly, and the first to trot over when I arrived for my weekly visit. One day she fell asleep in my hand. I really wished she was a boy, but, oh well. She was speaking to us…and especially me. “Yep, this is the one.”

Rob was drawn to a sweet little boy. He, too, was friendly and playful and liked visitors. And he was almost all black except for a little white tuft on his tummy. Just like Brad. I had noticed him, too, but was trying not to. But, oh well. He was speaking to us. “Yep, this is the one, too.”

So it was settled and I was SO excited. We picked a name for the girl and kept debating the boy’s name. We thought seriously about “Wilmer” – as a male nod to my grandma who inadvertently named Brad. But the little guy was just too lively and frisky for such an Elmer Fudd-y sort of name. Over chips and salsa at our favorite Mexican restaurant, we decided on Zak. A strong, masculine name with some mischief but with a sweet, cuddly side. And spelled only with a “k” to make it unique. It was perfect.

The girl’s name was obvious as soon as I thought of it. Sarah Jean was the name I planned to lobby hard for were Rob and I ever to have a daughter. I love the name Sarah and Jean was Rob’s mom’s name. Since we’re pretty firm on the “no kids” thing, Sarah was the perfect cat name, although we stopped short at adding the middle name. Call it wisdom, respect, and family harmony. Sarah fit the little grey girl perfectly. Sweet and dainty but strongly determined and able to hold her own in a pride of brothers. We were set. All we had to do was wait. I started sending out photos to a few family members, sharing the news of our imminent fuzzy arrivals.

Then around Labor Day things changed. Momma cat and all the kittens suddenly got sick. Really sick. No other cats in the clinic were ill, which was a relief. But despite a brief rally, all of them were quarantined and not visitable for three agonizing weeks.

I don’t have kids, and I would never say this to a mom who has experienced the real-life thing because I can’t imagine the enormity of it with a child…but I felt like I had babies in ICU. I was a wreck. I was quiet and withdrawn and distracted and consumed with worry. All for kittens that weren’t even technically mine yet.

Cathy was wonderful at keeping us informed but I still struggled not to pounce on her for information every time I saw her. She and the clinic were amazing. The time, resources, and love poured into these little animals were nothing short of heroic. One particularly difficult Sunday, Cathy was at the clinic all day, well past 9:00pm, hand-feeding the sick kittens every two hours. They weren’t keeping much in; I can only imagine the repeated cleaning that took place with eight gastrointestinally sick cats. Cathy sent me several emails that night. Three kittens were doing rather well and seemed as if they hadn’t gotten very sick at all. Zak was in that group. The other four kittens had gotten hit pretty hard. A little tabby boy was particularly struggling. Cathy wasn’t sure he was going to make it. She mentioned with some caution that two of the others were showing signs of improvement. She was careful not to mention Sarah in her emails. I tried hard not to notice.

Loads of tests were being run and I learned about regenerative anemia, nonregenerative anemia, and hemobart. The tests could only be conducted on momma since blood draws are tricky on kittens, plus they tend to be naturally anemic anyway. We were praying that whatever they had wasn’t genetic with long-term implications.

The little tabby didn’t make it. Through him, it was determined that the illness was an infection. Although that was a relief, while waiting for those results, Cathy’s own personal cat, Java – who was just shy of his 5th birthday – had to suddenly be put down. It was a terrible day capping off a terrible week. I was utterly consumed by cats and grief and a longing to understand why all of this was happening. It all seemed so unnecessarily painful and difficult. All I wanted was a couple of kittens. How hard is that?? Most people just go to a shelter one day and come back with a kitten in a box and a promise to Bob Barker. The situation with the clinic kittens had seemed so ideal and now it was rife with anxiety and fear and a thing I loathe: a need for patience. I had bonded with these kittens. I had named them. I had showed off pictures. I desperately wanted to bring them home with me. But now their future was uncertain. And I was kicking myself for allowing myself to get so involved so soon...and for bringing others into it.

Over the next couple of weeks, the three “healthy” kittens continued to thrive. Zak was described as a “chow hound” and apparently liked to lick fingers. This was wonderful news. They were being kept separate from the three “sick” kittens which included Sarah. While the two “sick” boys seemed to be making slow but optimistic progress, some of Sarah’s symptoms returned. Cathy told us that Sarah was determined and stubborn and was trying her hardest to keep up with her two brothers. That gave us hope and confirmed why we were drawn to her in the first place. I understand stubborn.

After three long weeks, I was finally able to see the kittens on September 23. I was allowed to pet Zak – who was the cutest little bundle of fur – but I could only watch Sarah through the window of an exam room dedicated to the sick kittens. My heart started to break as I watched Sarah. She indeed had mighty determination but so much time spent sick in a small space left her muscles weak and underdeveloped. She wobbled as she walked and she struggled to keep up as her two brothers scampered about. As I watched her, it hit me. I said to Cathy, “She almost didn’t make it, huh?” Cathy’s look said it all. Their efforts had indeed been heroic.

As I snapped some photos of Sarah, I also took a few of another grey kitty. A boy. A polydactyl (5 toes on his front paws instead of 4). I took the pictures “just in case.” Just in case Sarah wasn’t adoptable after all.

We saw Cathy a few days later. Sarah wasn’t really progressing. Cathy shared some reservations. We prepared ourselves to let go and told Cathy that if Sarah wasn’t able to come home with us, we’d like the little grey boy we were now calling Paulie (poly – for polydactyl). So now we were back to two boys, the original plan.

A few days later, on our regular Wednesday visit, the clinic was ready for us. In one room were the three “healthy” kittens: Zak, a little black girl who had been rather blah and nondescript all along, and a grey girl with white socks whom another couple had already claimed. In another room were Sarah, Paulie, and a little black and white guy we had long named Whiney due to his less-than-endearing temperament. We were allowed to go in and play with the kittens in Zak’s room. But because they were still recuperating, we were only allowed to watch Sarah and her two “sick” brothers through a window. Cathy readily admitted the next day that it was a set-up.

We played with Zak and had a great time. We couldn’t wait to bring him home. We were glad the grey girl with white paws had a home cuz she was a mischievous, independent handful. And the little black girl, oddly, was suddenly very cute. It was as if overnight her personality blossomed. Instead of blah and barely memorable, she was now lively and spunky and held her own against Zak despite being nearly a pound lighter. (Did I mention Zak likes to eat?). We mentioned this to Cathy when she joined us on the floor covered in kitten toys. She said that she and a few of the other vets had noticed the same change just a few days earlier. “Do you want to take a peek at the other room?” Cathy asked. I did and yet in some ways I wish I hadn’t.

Sarah had gotten worse. Her mind was fine but the illness had obviously done something to her coordination. She was shaking and even more wobbly and had trouble controlling her back two legs. When she focused intently on her food dish or a toy, her head bounced around like a ceramic dog in the back of a car window. Cathy said there was something neurological going on and she suspected meningitis. It was all I could do not to cry. As I watched Sarah struggle, my dreams of bringing her home died.

I asked Cathy what would happen to Sarah if we didn’t take her. She said that Sarah would stay there and be a “clinic cat.” They would continue to treat her and care for her as long as it made sense to do so. She said that everyone at the clinic had fallen in love with her and couldn’t bear to put her down unless there was no choice. This settled our hearts immensely.

We went back to Zak’s room. We watched the little black girl and Zak play together and it was obvious how well they got along. Despite Zak’s size, the little girl stood up to him. Neither was a push-over. I went back to the window and looked at Paulie. The infection had put him several weeks behind the healthy ones in the other room. He was small and somewhat submissive and passive. We worried about how he would fare with the playful linebackery Zak. We also were concerned how well it would work to bring kittens home several weeks apart. We literally went back and forth and then it was clear. The next day we told Cathy that when Zak was ready to come home, we wanted to bring his little black sister with him. Cathy endorsed our decision as the one she hoped we would make.

So day before yesterday, 9 longs weeks after we first met them, we brought two adorable, highly socialized, incredibly friendly, healthy kittens home to Woodhaven. Although I intended to be open to “whatever” I wanted two boys and neither of them black. I now share my life with a boy kitty and a girl kitty, both of them black. I’ve decided God must really find it amusing when I make plans.

As for the name of the little black girl, I thought long and hard about it. Rob pretty readily accepted Sarah as the right name for her. He lobbied that she had the same personality we had first noticed in the grey one and that it was still a special name to us. Plus there’s certainly not only one girl named Sarah so there was no reason that two cats couldn’t be named Sarah. But I wasn’t so easily convinced. I wasn’t sure it was right to name two cats in a row the same thing, and I didn’t want to diminish the importance and bonding I had felt with the grey kitty. So for a few days we considered Roxi, Zoey, and Bev. But as we prepared our home for kittens and went shopping and stocked our nursery, I found myself struggling not to call the black girl Sarah. When we picked them up at the clinic on Monday, I asked Cathy about “the little grey girl” -- unable to bear calling her by my special name. I asked what the clinic’s staff was calling her. “Almost all of them are calling her the little grey girl.” About half-way home, near a Lowe’s, while staring at two little black lumps of fur in a kennel on my lap, I looked at the smaller one and said, “Hi, Sarah.”

So we are ecstatic to be cat parents again. Our house is filled with cardboard barriers. Our sunroom has exploded in feathery toys and wads of aluminum foil and boxes and scratching posts. Our newspapers have gone unread. Our dishes and laundry are piling up for fear of running loud appliances quite so soon. And I am quickly learning what nooks and crannies I haven’t vacuumed in a long time. It is fantastic.

As for why all this happened and why it was so uncommonly difficult for us to simply adopt two kittens, I have no idea. But I have to believe there is a purpose to it; otherwise the universe looks rather mean. What I do know, though, is that Zak has the loudest purr I've ever heard and Sarah loves to snuggle. And I know that our lives will be completely chaotic for the next several months. I can’t wait.

One last Brad post. Thank you for your indulgence.

Thank God for time.

We are doing better. We are still very sad but we feel like we are crawling out from the depths. We’ve been grateful for distractions, like a weekend away with friends, a sudden need to take on big outdoor and indoor projects, and an intense thunderstorm.

Our friends and family have been nothing short of amazing. We are touched and overwhelmed by how many have shared their tears with us. We are humbled and grateful that so many understand and respect what Brad meant to us. And we have been comforted by wonderful advice (“Grieve well and thoroughly. It pays off.”), empathetic stories, and a spectacular cat made for us by a 6-year-old out of a toilet paper roll, construction paper, and pipe cleaners. Until we got Brad’s ashes back a few days ago, it sat on the mantel in our bedroom. It now has a place of honor on a memento shelf.

A number of people have gently asked if we plan to get another cat. Absolutely, yes. While Brad has a huge place in our hearts, we know we have lots of love to give and there is room for more kitties. We are Cat People who need a pride. But we also don’t want to short-circuit our grieving by getting another kitten too soon. As painful as this process is, we want to honor it and ourselves. And Brad. Although we suspect he's too busy running around outside in Kitty Heaven thinking, "Why didn't they ever let me go outside before? This is AWESOME!!" Rob suggested maybe we start looking around Labor Day weekend for our next cat or cats, since that worked out so well with Brad. We’ll see. One thing we know for certain, though, is that we are going to be very discerning in finding our next kitty. From experience, we know that we will know when we find the right one if we just pay attention.


How Brad Came to Us

Rob had been doing a lot of international business travel and I was getting tired of talking to our apartment’s walls. We had finally saved up the $500 pet deposit and were ready, after not quite 3 years of marriage, to expand our family to three.

I had a 4-day weekend off from work and Rob was heading to Scotland again. As I drove him to the airport that Saturday morning, we reviewed what we had decided: a male kitten, short hair, silver and black striped. After seeing Rob off, I headed straight for the San Francisco SPCA.

I approached the desk and said that I was there to adopt a kitten. Expecting to be welcomed with grateful, open arms for coming to the rescue, I was instead handed a form asking about my lifestyle, home situation, and financial expectations for caring for an animal. As the form was being handed to me, the SPCA Nazi asked, “And do you plan to declaw the cat?”

“Uhhh….no.”

“Why not?”

“Ummm…it seems like it would hurt and that’s what scratching posts are for?"

“OK. Fill this out.”

Completely unaware that I had successfully passed the official Stance on De-Clawing Interrogation, I was soon ushered into the cat area. There were several rooms of cages and high-pitched mews echoed off the linoleum floor.

I wandered around slowly, looking for a silver and black tabby. I eventually found one, cowering in the back corner of a cage. I tried to coax it to come to the front but he wouldn’t budge. A little bit later, I noticed a fluffy black paw reaching out between the metal rungs of a nearby cage, inviting me to play. We were finger-sparring when one of the volunteers came by.

"Would you like to hold him?”

“Huh? Oh. Umm. Sure, why not?”

The cat was black and had long hair. All wrong. This wasn’t my cat but I figured I could give him a little attention as I looked around some more.

So me and this little black fuzz ball wandered around the rest of the cat rooms, looking for a silver and black tabby. The black kitten purred and played with my fingers and happily let me carry him around in the crook of my arm. We couldn’t find any other silver and black tabbies so we went back to the first one. Still cowering. As I stood there wondering how to convince the seemingly perfect cat to notice me, the volunteer came back.

“So you want to take this one then?” he asked, pointing at the little black lump purring on my shoulder.

In a surreal moment I can still feel vividly, of speaking without intending to, I looked at Brad and said, “Yep, he’s the one.”


Why he is named Brad

My grandma was known for having trouble remembering names. It was a huge family joke and it provided lots of laughter, including from Grandma. Although she might call you by the wrong name, it was always a name from within the family. I was often called Peggy, Jennifer, Ginger, or Marion – my mom, cousins, and aunt. My dad, uncle, great uncle, and grandpa all got to share their names, too.

Rob and I only dated for about 4 months before we got engaged, so when my fiancé of just two weeks accompanied me to a family reunion celebrating Grandma and Grandpa’s 50^th wedding anniversary, nobody had heard anything about this Rob guy.

The reunion was just a few days long but that was plenty of time for Grandma to start calling Rob the wrong name. But for the first time in family history, Grandma made up a completely new name. She kept calling him Brad. There was no “Brad” anywhere in the family! This of course prompted even more laughter. For years and years to come.

After almost 3 years of occasionally being called “Brad,” Rob and I thought it would be fun to make an honest woman out of Grandma. Thankfully, our new kitten’s personality just didn’t suit the somewhat formal and punny “Phydeaux” name we had chosen as an alternate. So somewhere along Highway 101 before heading across the Dumbarton Bridge on the way home from the SPCA, “Brad” officially joined the family.

For the next 13 years, Grandma still couldn’t get Rob’s and Brad’s names straight.

“And how’s that Brad doing?” she would ask on the phone. “How’s his job?"

“Oh, he’s doing great, Grandma! No hairballs this week and he’s using his litter box.”

At Grandma’s funeral, Rob got up to say a few words. “Hi, I’m Rob. Some of you know me as Brad.”…

There’s a very good chance that our next cat will be named “Wilma.”

A guest blogger: Rob

We bought a big house. But it never really felt big until Brad died.

We had to put Brad down. We don’t know what had a hold of him, but it was moving fast and taking him quickly. He was so clearly in pain, and some of the things that he so dearly loved - like riding on my shoulder - were too painful for him to do. He had stopped eating and drinking. It was all he could do to make it onto the bed. He didn’t even fight when we packed him up for our last trip to the vet, and that was not him. Looking back, we can see signs of his decline going back a few weeks, but it really all crashed in a week. And how can you say good-bye to 13 pounds of black fur and unconditional love, even given a week?

This is weird. How do I wake up without him? I can look at the calendar and know that I was married almost 3 years before he joined us, but I don’t remember being married and cat-less. I almost don’t know what to do. How can we get going in the morning without 8 legs and 3 baths? Isn’t there a law against it? Worse than that, this is the first time in this house – in 5 years – I’ve woken up without him here. I can’t even claim that with Toni. He’s been a fixture, like the lights. Or the bed covers, which he could mimic well.

And later this afternoon, when I want to be lazy, what do I use as an excuse? Now I just look like a slob instead of a friend to the cat. He was so good at napping exactly where and when I wanted him to, or slowing me down when I had been working too hard. He tried to do the same with Toni, but sometimes she wasn’t as ready to listen. He would persist – it was his gift to get us in tune with him.

He made us cat-like, and we made him a third loved-one in the house. We joked about being Big Cat and Mom Cat from day one, but looking back we had become like that over time without noticing. Since he was with us, we became more real, more present, more in tune to our true selves, much as one would see in a cat. What creature knows itself and caters to its own needs as well as a cat? We learned to take care to rest in the sunbeams, to purr and show appreciation, and to look out for each other as partners. And we made this attitude spread to the rest of our life. Our move out of California, with all the little decisions that built up to it, derive from being cat-like – being present and in-tuned with what we needed. We became more real and human, all because we followed the lead of the cat.

We made sure that we didn’t treat him as a person or as family, which probably surprises a number of people. He wasn’t family – the three of us were a Pride. He was a cat, and we never forgot that and we always respected that fact. But we did treat him as a loved one, beyond just being a pet. We spoiled him, and he spoiled us with love and attention. We were a group, moving together but always independent. We didn’t always need to be together, but we always knew where each other was and were comforted by that knowledge. Given a choice, we’d be together, but we each knew our place, knowing when each needed attention and each needed space. Toni and I were family, but the three of us were a pride.

And now where is he? I’m so lost.

No longer will I see his tail pass in front of a table or down the hall -- tall, strong, and happy like a flag being flown proudly in a full breeze. No longer will I have to figure out how to type with him sitting on my arms or biting my fingers. Now I realize I should have typed less and pet more. No longer will I hear him jingle down the stairs, or in from his food bowl. I won’t even hear him jump down from the counter when he was being bad. I still expect him around every corner. I counted – there are a dozen places where I keep looking for him, where I have to talk myself into knowing that he won’t be there before I look.

I cry sad and happy tears at the same time. I think of what I’m missing, but I also think about how even in his last hours, in great pain, he worked to care for me and Toni. She explained that time so much better than I can, so I won’t. But how noble he was in those moments – what a lesson from God to learn. Showing us how to care for each other to the end. How to love to the end. How to be a friend, and a companion, and a partner to the end. And how to trust that we would do what we could for him. We did – as awful as it was. We took that pain away the only way possible, and without that choice the pain would have only increased. I again cry happy and sad tears as I think of him going to sleep on Toni’s lap for the last time, as the pain faded in his body, and his head sank in his familiar, content way – he was with us and knew he was cared for until the end.

How’d this house get so big so quickly?