Come Home, Kitty

My family lives with two beautiful cats, Artemis and Jupiter. These feline brothers of ours just turned one year old — fifteen in cat years, my daughter insists — at the beginning of July.

We have been enjoying their playful antics since last September, when we adopted them from a friend whose cat had an unexpected litter. My kids were on cloud nine as we drove home with them, having begged me for months for a cat (or a dog, or rats, or a panda…). They are the first cats we’ve ever had, and as amusing as it’s been to watch Jupiter fly through the air chasing a string, or notice that Artemis has fallen asleep in a twisted, arching, back-bend stretch (how can that possibly be comfortable?), I think I get more pleasure from witnessing my children experience the joy that comes from loving and taking care of two fascinating felines.

The kids are completely enamored with their furry friends, and from day one they allowed their cat-brothers to make themselves at home deep within their tender hearts.

As the frisky kittens got older, and their 4 a.m. chases around the house began to sound and feel more like an elephant stampede than the play of five-pound cats, we started to think that maybe it was time to let them go outside and burn off some energy exploring on their own.

My daughter was afraid they might run away or climb up a tall tree, so at first, we tried walking them on leashes through the bush. We quickly learned why the phrase “it was like herding cats,” is often used to describe a futile effort; they zig-zagged all over the place, walking everywhere except on the recognizable path, managing to get their leash-lines tangled around every sapling and leg they encountered.

The cats were absolutely fascinated with the wild world — as is my whole family — and stared wide-eyed at fluttering leaves and birds flying high above. Their tiny bodies naturally found instinctive hunting rhythms, and we watched as they would completely freeze at the sight of a June bug or a toad crossing in front of them, before beginning their smooth, controlled stalking towards their tiny prey. They pounced with an innate ancestral knowledge of how to do so.

Once they had a taste of the outdoors, it was inevitable that they wanted more. So, eventually, we loosened up on our protective hovering, and instead of snatching the kittens up when they strayed a few steps away into the forest, we let them go.

Surrendering control was a big lesson for my children. The idea that they would just have to trust that Artemis and Jupiter would come home again was something they didn’t like at all at first. It was only when they began to see that the cats did come back that they began to relax. Sometimes the adventurous kitties would return after just a few minutes, but as time went on and they became more daring, it would be several hours, or even overnight before we’d hear their demanding meows at the door.

As weeks went by, the cats’ outdoor routine became normal; we let them out automatically, without fear.

Until one morning, Jupiter didn’t come home. Artemis was there at the back door, calling for his food as usual. But his brother was nowhere to be seen.

It wasn’t the first time one of them had stayed away a little longer, so we didn’t worry about Jupiter right away. When he hadn’t come back by nightfall, we thought maybe he was just out on a longer adventure, and that surely he’d be hungry by morning and we’d see his sleek grey body waiting by the door when we woke up.

That didn’t happen. Nor did it the following morning. As the days went by, we began to fear the worst. The kids were devastated, imagining they may never see their cuddly little friend again.

There are a few predators where we live — owls, fishers, coyotes, wolves, black bear, foxes — so it was definitely possible that one of these had caught Jupiter off guard, and killed our precious pet in the night, bringing him home to feed their brood of offspring. Everybody needs to eat, after all.

Thinking that Jupiter might have provided just one meal for a hungry family seemed unfair. One meal didn’t seem like enough of a trade-off for his expended life, and all the heartache attached to his loss.

Grief is a painful reality that we all have to face sooner or later in our lives. This was the first time for my children, and they took it hard. I hugged and consoled them, taking their sobbing bodies into my arms as I tried to offer them comfort, lying with them until they cried themselves to sleep, all the while feeling the sadness of Jupiter’s loss myself. My own grief was multiplied by witnessing my children weighed down with the pain of losing someone they loved.

Artemis was distraught too; he meandered around the house purring to himself (which cats do when they’re content, but also when they are self-comforting), and quite often sought out his two-legged companions for extra snuggles.

Even though I understand that grief is absolutely necessary, and is actually a beautiful part of the human journey — in the end it allows us to feel things deeper, to truly see beauty, and to experience the expansiveness of joy — it is by its very nature hard to endure in the moment. Our family was very sad, and we bore the heavy weight as best we could.

We lit candles for Jupiter, breathing our loving intention into them, wishing for his safe return home. We also prayed that wherever he was, he wasn’t in pain, and that if he was gone, we hoped he could understand our love and appreciation for the time we had together.

We began to let Jupiter go. We remembered the things we loved about him — the way he would give out an abrupt little meow every time he was startled out of a cat nap, the way he would always curl his front paws under his chest when he was sitting at ease, giving the impression that he was showing cleavage. We laughed, and cried, and expressed our gratitude for having had that beautiful cat Jupiter in our lives, even if only for a short time. Sharing our feelings and holding each other in those moments was a precious and tender time; we came together, and found that sharing the weight of the pain somehow made it feel a bit lighter.

We began the long slow journey of healing our broken hearts. I had faith that over time, the bittersweet aspect of thinking about Jupiter would shift into pure sweetness, and all of us would remember him only with fondness and joy.

Then, on the morning of day eight, I noticed the tail of a cat in the periphery of my vision on the back deck. I looked over and saw Artemis… and then I saw that there were actually two cat tails; indeed, there were two entire cats on the back deck, one tabby who had been mourning his brother, and another very familiar silver-grey one: Jupiter.

Jupiter came home!

My son dashed out the door and snatched him up — undoubtedly wanting to stop him from even thinking about running off again — and brought him into the house. My daughter ran over, as did my partner and I, surrounding Jupiter in a cloud of affection (which was probably a lot of stimulation for a guy who’d been out on a forest walkabout by himself for more than a week). If he felt overwhelmed, I know he also could not have failed to feel the love.

I watched both my son and daughter’s faces light up again, in a way they hadn’t for days. It’s amazing how instantly the weight of grief can be lifted. And yet, there is an after-ache that remains, like a sore muscle, because those emotions were felt were real, and they took up a huge space during all that time we believed Jupiter was gone forever, and that we would never know what had happened to him.

I am grateful that my children are happy, and that they got to experience the relief of their worst fears being dispelled in an instant, by the mere sight of a special cat. But I am also grateful that they — that we all — went through this experience as a family, and were able to feel our raw feelings, and practice moving them through.

As I said, grief is an inevitable part of life, and is an essential part of the human journey in its fullest expression. This story has a happy ending, but I know one day my kids will experience loss again; one of our cats may run off and this time, never return. One day they will lose a grandparent, a parent, a friend. So will I. But if we can come together the way we did, to hear each other remember, to pray, and cry, and laugh, and hold each other close, we will get through it.

If nothing else, I hope my children have learned a little bit about the nature of grief, the importance of family (community), and the precious fragility of life.

Every moment is a gift, and may we all breathe in the moment, and not take a single thing for granted.

Life is beautiful.