I have told this story dozens of times and never tire of its miraculous reality–a tale of right time, right place. A serendipitous connection that found us broken and helped heal us.
My boyfriend (now husband), G, and I were separated when I traveled to Sacramento for a week-long precision rifle course. On the last day, I pulled into the range in 100-degree heat and parked by the remote dumpster I greeted each morning. This time it spoke back: a desperate kitten crying from inside. Without no tree or wall nearby to mistake for a fatal fall, I hated the person who tossed this innocent life away. I used my car to hoist myself into the trash. He was so scared–and so ready–that he didn’t hesitate when I scooped him into my hand. Relief softened his body, and I sat cross-legged on the garage heap and cried, then hatched a plan.
I tucked him away in my shemagh, blasted the car’s AC, and made my rifle bag into a cradle aligned with the vent. I checked on him between drills all day. After class I found a Starbucks and fed him half-and-half, which he gulped down. He couldn’t have been more than five weeks old. I told myself I’d find a shelter.
He had other ideas.
On the drive home he climbed onto my shoulder and fell asleep, purring so loudly it seemed impossible for his size. I didn’t know how to introduce a new pet into our fractured home, but I knew he was mine.
When I got back, I was a pile of frustration, panic, grief, and love. G is who I turned to. We washed “little kitty” in the sink, picked off fleas with tweezers, and towel-dried his swollen milk belly, long-whiskered ears, and giant paws. In that moment there was nothing to argue about–we were in sync, caring for a creature whose first of nine lives had already been spent.
He reminded us that hardship is better navigated together. He became our rekindled origin point. Fourteen years later, he remains a tangible anchor to life’s complexity.
He overcame sickness and fights, the death of his brother Demetri, and the disappearance of his sister Sake. He moved with us through a handful of homes, welcoming the additions of Archer, Nikita, and Barry along the way. He greeted thousands of Airbnb guests and stole the hearts of neighbors, visitors, passersby, IG friends, vets, and medical staff. He was a cat without a steady name for much of his life, finally bequeathed with a boring one most people mispronounced–Katze (cat-suh), the German word for cat. But he was more than a cat–more than sweet, more than patient, more than love. He was an old soul who lived all nine lives with wild ferocity.
We were traveling when our neighbors alerted us of his altered state. The thunder-loud purr was gone. A photo of his eyes sent us to the car. We drove 12-plus hours home with the quiet certainty that this might be goodbye. Our friends stayed with him until midnight. When we arrived, he got up and started talking to us, chattering the way he always did. We felt unfamiliar bumps scattered through his body and naively believed hoped these were abscesses–that we had time. We drove to the ER with him singing, pretending nothing had changed.
The vet told us the bumps were cancer nodules. His body was shutting down. His temperature was only 95°F. We took him home, wrapped him in blankets, and arranged for an in-home vet to help him rest. Before they arrived, we thanked him for staying–choosing to bear the pain instead of taking a long solitary walk–so we could be there. He knew we needed the closure.
He passed peacefully. He was ready. We were not.
This last week has been a blur. We tried to prepare, but humans can’t really prepare for a future we cannot hold. Grief is rippling through us like a tide, and we are trying to befriend it because it carries his spirit and will be what mends our broken herts.
Thank you for everything, Katze.
Into the light you go, and into the wild you remain.
Sorrow settles deep in my chest,
an intruder building rooms of stone.
It steals my breath, weighs me down,
eroding my faith that I’ll endure its stay.I’m scared to live with this stranger,
but can’t seem to evict the ghost.
Our dance of syncopated absence
leaves lights on in empty rooms,
slams doors, rearranges furniture,
and doesn’t draw the curtains before noon.
My heart’s blueprint aches for silence amid the chaos,
yet I refuse to sentence my companion to cold rooms alone.Witnessing emboldens me to build a fire,
and I cautiously invite my stowaway to share its warmth.
The house is still strange, but together we tend the embers,
and the chill loosens–just a little.
