DAYS OF FIRE

As a former party girl without an ounce of compassion, my story of adoption starts very selfishly. My father had just recently made me homeless, a few too many house parties whilst he was skydiving, and you find yourself without a roof.

The day I found out I was homeless, I was numb. I worked at a prestigious hair salon as an apprentice. After my mother's phone call during my morning cigarette break, I went back to work as if nothing had happened. Only when I was washing a clients hair did my tears start weeping into the basin—my father would be violent if he ever saw my face again.

My manager at work took me to the nearby homelessness office where I registered homeless. They immediately sent me to a hostel for drug addicts and troublemakers; there was no room anywhere else (you have to pay to be miserable). This tiny room, which became my only home, had its own horror story, but that does not belong here.

When life at the hostel became unbearable, my social worker managed to get me a temporary flat. I would stay there until the local city council was able to offer me permanent accommodation. I get two options. If I turn down housing, then I’m on the street.

It was in this temporary flat that my heart began to hope. In these empty rooms, I imagined a cat walking around. A small, warm friend next to me. It was the only thing that helped me to cope. When I found my permanent residence, I would rescue a cat—who would this new friend be? What would they look like?

I wait for my new life to begin. Months go by before the city council offer me my two choices. But these choices are bleak. The accommodation they offer is barely liveable. I am accosted by the blocks local drug dealer. I trip over the shredded carpet. I get an electric shock from the light switch. With so much noise and trouble, my mother, who was a helping hand, would not condone my living there. She was firm in persuading me to leave my home city and live with her. She is a minister and resides in a church manse with plenty of room to spare.

When I arrived at my new home, after coming through the front door, from the top of the winding staircase, two faces appeared. The most beautiful little faces, two tiny kittens mewing, looking down from above. My mother had rescued not one but two kittens—sisters. They had such fire in their faces. I named them Emmy and Harlow.

From that moment on, my life took a very different direction. There is a humbling. Everything changed. I educated myself, and I travelled the world; I even went vegan. My whole way of thinking began to evolve. But underneath it all was the safety of Emmy and Harlow, I would protect them, and they would protect me.

They taught me so much about compassion, and responsibility, and love. They showed me love was real. They were my friends when I had none, always there by my side, when I was sad and when I was happy. They were so feisty and so full of personality.

They taught me about time and the art of being. Cats do not have the same concept of time as humans do. It could be breakfast, lunch or dinner; it could be dawn or dusk, and it would not phase them. They have their patterns and routines, but the anxiety of keeping time does not confine them. They are more present. They are content with simple things.

Throughout the years, I would volunteer at the local cat shelter where we adopted them. It fascinated me. In each pen where a cat prowled, there was a whole unique personality. Being there taught me how to approach animals, be unselfish, and be compassionate. The love that came from every interaction was indescribable. Even the high-risk cats, cats who were scared and would lash out, you sat, and you went to them for them; you show them that it’s ok to trust, that humans can be kind.

Whilst abroad, I once had a severe panic attack. I lost my sight, and it near ruined my nerves. But the thought of Emmy and Harlow calmed me. I imagined their soft chirps, the joyous look when I come home, the way they cuddle into me as I worked on my novel. At night I would dream of protecting them from danger, but during the panic attack, they were protecting me.

In the summer, Harlow would call me outside when it was warm and sunny. It was her happy place, and she wanted to share that with me. I would sit by her side, piqued by her personality. Harlow was a cheeky girl. Her quirks were outrageous. And Emmy was a Madame, a loveable dream. I would always linger a few more minutes every time I left their side. I could not bear the thought of losing them.

The day Harlow got sick, I wanted to build a cave and hide. Ten years after they came into my life, the lethargy set in. I could not know what was wrong with her. Still, to this day, I do not know. The vet did not know what was wrong with her. She spent days at the veterinary practice with various problems but no cause. The vet speculated that perhaps she was knocked by a car or had ingested poison. I spent days going back and forth and speaking on the phone with the people trying to save her. I truly believed that Harlow would get better and come home.

Little did I know that I had a death in my pocket. The worst happened, FATE—Feline Aortic Thromboembolism (Saddle Thrombus). An excruciatingly painful diagnosis. When it strikes, there are no survivors. So I got the call, and I got the time, and I went and said goodbye.

The two joys of my home were now separate for the first time in their lives. Emmy had lost her sister. When I carried the body home, Emmy was scared at first, then she sniffed Harlow, the paw that lay limp, and I guess animals know.

The safe fire that had kept my heart warm was now gone. Was it my fault? The guilt was a turning truth. The grief was dark those first few weeks. My heart had been closed. The nightmares were telling. But the dreams hurt more than anything. They tell me Harlow is simply missing, that she will be around soon. For months I could not sleep. I had Emmy. But my worry heightened. I want to see Harlow again. To hold her, smell her, be near her. But it is impossible. There is in no way I will ever see her again.

And as I wait for her to turn the corner and enter the room, I did the only thing I knew how to do. I honoured Harlow by facing my fear of death, my fear of impermanence. For the first time, I saw life and death. There was no hidden cover, no lulling of the senses.

I stare at myself in the mirror, and I do not recognise myself. You kept this protective layer over my emotions, and the skin is bare now; there is no safe covering. I had long fought the dark feelings, but in burying you, you have unearthed things in me far deeper. I question the meaning of life. I see your green eyes in my mind, and I know the universe. It is a familiar stranger, but it creates every new day before me. Every new day seems fresher—rawer.

Two months later and another cat of the household died. It was not Emmy. It was my mother’s cat, Jenna. This event heightened everything. These cats had been in my life for ten years and taught me so much about myself, but death was their greatest lesson. In death, they taught me so much, and I am glad. Even though there is a hole, a screaming pit of fear within me, there is also a celebration of life.

I do not know if death is a bad thing. But I now know it makes the living resilient. The fire is still there. I do not turn from it. It is alive in memory when her body is dead. The last look has been shed. There is no sight of Harlow now, only an imagined embrace that grows fainter with every thought.

Thank you, Harlow. I will never regret a moment spent with you. Loving you is worth the pain of losing you. Who knew a cat could change your life.