Friends for a Reason and a Season, Love for a Lifetime

It was an afternoon in early August. The kind of day that held summer’s heat yet hinted at the cool autumn air to come. My partner Brie and I sat in the back seat of our friend’s car with our sweet cat Isis between us in her soft carrier bag. I pet her silky fur through the opening at the top as we rolled from the northwest end of Toronto all the way southeast. We were headed to the animal hospital in the neighbourhood we had left behind just three weeks earlier. That mid-pandemic move turned out to be the last major life change my girl Isis would see me through.

We arrived at the veterinary clinic and were taken to the small, shaded back patio. It was an outdoor break space that the staff had generously given up so families could safely say goodbye to their beloved pets while COVID-19 posed a risk. As Brie and I sat back there with Isis, we knew we would have to face the next chapter without her.

The first time I saw Isis, it was late spring in 2012. She was a quivering puff of white and grey. I could barely see her in the dark under my landlord’s porch next door. His raised deck was open on the side that faced my backyard and it was only by chance that I spotted her down there. When I kissed at the air to get her attention, she looked but didn’t budge. All the neighbourhood cats loved me but this one was downright terrified.

I left her alone, not knowing whether she had someplace to go. I had never seen her before. She was skinny and small but not particularly scruffy, as far as I could tell.

The next day, I peeked under the porch and there she was, still shaking and curled up. Again, I tried to coax her out but she stubbornly stayed in her darkened corner. My landlord also tried to call for her, to no avail. The people who lived in the apartments above mine gave it a try too. The cat simply wasn’t interested in meeting anyone up close.

I lived with my mom at the time, on the main floor and basement of a house. I asked her to come and have a look.

“Do you think she’s a stray?” I asked.

“I don’t know, honey,” Mom said, “but she does look rather small, doesn’t she?”

“Yeah. Should I put out some food for her?”

I was wary of feeding a cat that might have a home. I didn’t want to lure a well-taken-care-of animal away from its loving humans.

“Sure,” mom said. “She looks hungry. I think we have a can of tuna.”

I dished out a little bit of food and left it by the porch along with a bowl of water, then I backed away and had a seat at the backyard patio table. Slowly and timidly, the cat emerged. I could see her ribs and her belly hung low, bright pink and furless, sagging skin with no fat to give it shape. I wondered if she’d had kittens. She looked around, calculating the risk, and then rushed towards the bowl of fish. She let down her guard just long enough to lap it up voraciously, followed by a big gulp of water. As soon as she was done, she bolted back beneath the porch. I slowly approached and looked at her again. She was licking her lips, staring straight at me. I said a few kind words and thanked her for eating before removing the food dish. I left the water out.

“Based on her appetite, I think she must be a stray,” I told my mom. “But I can’t get her to come near me for a closer look.”

“We’ll keep an eye on her, honey.”

The next day, the little cat was still there. I started to call her Grey Cat. It was an inside joke between Mom and me. So many of the neighbourhood cats were some shade of grey. We took to calling all of them Grey Cat. While she remained timid, I found the cat waiting for me the next day. She was at the edge of her hideout and she looked at me longingly with her weary green eyes. I wished she would come closer but at least this was progress. I served the rest of the tuna I had opened the previous night. While she ate, I stayed close. Then I went to the pet shop on the corner to pick up a few cans of wet food. I continued to leave meals out for her daily, hoping she would gain trust in me and allow me to examine her.

One evening after work, I was sitting at the outdoor table, enjoying the fresh, late-May air. My upstairs neighbour’s cat, a big fluffy boy the colour of ash named Jayjay, jumped up for a snuggle. He was awfully affectionate and often spent time in the yard with me. Grey Cat saw this scene unfolding and took me and Jayjay by surprise when she dashed from her hideout, leapt up onto my lap, pushed Jayjay off and curled up into a ball on my thighs, purring more loudly than I had ever heard a cat purr before.

Jajay, incensed, skulked off as I sat there, stunned and honoured that this tiny, grey and white creature who had shunned everyone else, had deemed me worthy of her affection. She had just needed confirmation that I was truly cat-friendly. Jayjay’s trust in me was a green light. I cautiously pet her, taking care not to scare her. We sat there for at least an hour, during which time her loud purring gave way to sleep.

Looking closely at her, I could see she was not in the best shape. Her fur was soft but dirty and her skin was flaking, a sign of poor nutrition and dehydration. There was also a black powder that suggested she might have fleas and her poor eyes were goopy and crusted. If she had ever lived with a family, it couldn’t have been very recently.

When the cat eventually took her leave, I excitedly went inside and told my mom what had happened. She was just as pleased as I was. She had been worried about the poor thing.

“I think it’s pretty clear she’s a stray, Mom,” I said.

“It does sound that way,” she responded. “So, you know what you have to do, right?”

“Yes, I have to take her to Toronto Animal Services and get her checked for a microchip. If she doesn’t have one, I’ll file a found cat report,” I said. Though my mom was an animal lover, she had made it clear when my cat Peaches died a few years earlier that she would prefer not to have another pet in the home. Mom was living with cancer and didn’t want another factor to consider. I was an adult at the time but it was still Mom’s house. I wasn’t going to push the matter, as much as I was falling in love with the stray.

“That’s right,” Mom said. “And if she doesn’t have an owner, you have to adopt her.”

I couldn't believe what she'd said. Overwhelmed with joy, I yelped, “really?”

“Really! I’ve grown quite fond of her too.”

I wrapped my arms around her as a wave of gratitude overcame me. “Thank you!”

The next day, I paid a visit to the local pet shop and asked if there was a carrier I could borrow. The clerk behind the counter kindly dug out an old plastic crate with a handle, leftover from a time when they adopted cats out from the store. The hard, red plastic was coated in thick dust. She handed it over to me and said, “If you want to clean it, you can have it.” I purchased some treats from her and went on my way.

I hosed off the carrier in the backyard and cleaned it until it was sparkling. Then I dried it out and lined it with towels. Expecting a difficult task to get the timid in the cage, I walked over to the porch with the carrier and treats, ready to bribe Grey Cat and practice my patience. I set the crate down and made kissing sounds into the darkness. As if she was expecting me, Grey Cat came waltzing right into the carrier and lay down on the towels, slow blinking at me through the window. That was easy.

I thought the next part might be harder, taking the cat on an hour-long public transit commute to the public animal shelter. Instead, it was a pleasant ride. I scratched at her chin and stroked her whiskers through the cage door and she purred all the while and made a few squeaky meows, calmly accepting the journey. It only made me love her more. My stomach turned when I thought that this cat who seemed so comfortable with me now might not be a stray at all, but a lost cat with a family awaiting her return.

When the vet opened her carrier to examine her, she sat politely while being scanned and prodded. It was unbelievable. After weeks of avoiding contact, she was content with a stranger’s attention, as long as I was there.

The vet confirmed that she was an adult, female cat, at least five but likely older, and there was no microchip. She did have fleas and would need treatment. Her upper respiratory symptoms, the goopy eyes, were common in stray cats. She told me the condition would be chronic—annoying but not harmful. The vet checked the lost cat reports for the area and said that none matched this one’s description. The next step would be to put in a found cat report and wait the recommended two weeks to see if anyone came forward before officially adopting and registering her.

I brought Grey Cat home, feeling hopeful but nervous. We were already so fond of each other and I wanted our bond to be a lasting one. It was, however, a comfort that if she had a family to reunite with, at least I could keep her safe in the meantime.

Back at my house, I brought her indoors and gave her a flea bath. She cooperated with the process in a way that, years later, she would not. Once clean and dry, I showed her the house and brought her up to my swooning mom. Mom’s eyes glimmered and though she kept her enthusiasm measured, I could see how happy she was to have this gentle creature at home. She hadn’t worked in several years and she was often home alone. Grey Cat and Mom would make good company for one another, and the thought reassured Mom and me both.

I sat with the cat in my room and looked at her for a long time. Grey Cat no longer felt like an acceptable name. Perhaps prematurely, I started to conceive of alternatives. I needed to call her something, even if our time together might be short. I wanted something that conveyed strength and resilience. I still thought her drooping pink belly might be a sign of her having had babies and since the vet could see no signs of a spaying scar, she said it was a plausible assumption. I would later find out that wasn’t the case but based on my educated guess, I decided to name my new friend Isis, after the Egyptian goddess of motherhood, fertility, the moon, healing, death and rebirth. It felt perfectly aligned to the magic I felt she had already bestowed. And she would, indeed, be my familiar through many moon phases, many rebirths. Plus, the name shortened nicely to Ice or Icy, which was fitting with her lovely grey and white fur with stripes and splotches, and her cool demeanour.

I bought some essentials to keep Isis comfortable for however long I might have her and tried my best not to watch the clock during the prescribed two-week waiting period. One afternoon, my phone rang and it was someone whose cat matched the description I had filed. My heart sank to the floor. This was it. This was the end of my time with my new best friend.

As I listened to the person on the other end of the phone describe the cat, my pulse started to quicken. “Grey and white...pattern…tabby…he…”

“He?” I said. “Are you looking for a male cat or a female cat?”

“A male cat,” the person replied.

I tried to contain the joy I felt, to keep it from bubbling up in my voice. After all, as happy as I was, what I had to say was not good news for the person I was speaking with.

“I’m afraid the cat I found is a female cat,” I said.

“Oh no,” the woman answered. “that’s really too bad. Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

“Oh. Well, thank you anyway.”

That was the only response I received to my found cat report. After two weeks, on June 9, 2012, Isis officially became my newest family member. It was one of the best days of my life.

As Isis got more comfortable with me, her personality started to shine. Her occasional squeaks became more frequent and eventually gave way to assertive meows. She purred like an engine and always wanted to be spooned. When we cuddled, she would maneuver herself to use my arm as a pillow between her legs. She loved to spend time outdoors but adapted well to indoor life. And when I moved out of my mom’s house to a new area and decided to let her out on a leash, she had no problem with it, as long as she got to spend her time in the grass.

Isis never scratched or showed aggression. I only ever saw her hiss in moments of fear. And though she was very frightened of men for the first couple of years I had her, she finally relaxed and became trusting of the ones I knew.

She got along well with other cats—she and Jayjay became fast friends. Years later when we had a feline roommate named Tux, Isis played a good big sister to the rambunctious younger cat.

I’ve known and loved many cats but I have yet to meet another one as gentle and mild-mannered as my sweet Isis. She had a way about her that converted cat skeptics into cat people. She truly was a special being and it was a gift to know her. Though I was the one to file the paperwork that made our relation official, I still say that she adopted me when she rushed to my lap for a snuggle and awaited my arrival every day thereafter.

Isis came into my life at a pivotal time. Big shifts were taking place and she was often what kept me grounded. Losing my estranged father, moving to my first apartment, coming out as bisexual, meeting my first girlfriend—Isis saw me through these life-changing moments. In the difficult final months of my dear mom’s life, and as I processed the grief of her passing, my darling Isis, who had been a friend to my mom as well, caught so many of my tears in her coat. In the years that followed, there were still more shifts, in my career, in relationships with family and friends, in values. Isis helped me find my way.

When I met Brie, Isis vouched for her, quickly growing attached. Isis adopted Brie as a step-parent and welcomed her warmly when she moved into our home in 2017. Brie and I had planned to move away from Toronto in 2020 and though the pandemic changed that plan, we got a fresh start in the west end of the city together in July. Isis came with us and helped us settle in. But then her ageing body started to let go. It was as if she knew we would be okay. With Brie and I looking out for each other, Isis’s job was done.

Her body of mysterious age and origin had been shutting down for quite some time and she finally let go of her fight, back in the familiar surroundings of the beaches neighbourhood where we had spent most of our days together.

Brie and I sat with Isis, stroking her fur and kissing her tired face. I took in the pattern of her coat and scratched her in her favourite spots—under her chin, between her eyes, and along her side. Brie and I held hands, preparing ourselves to say goodbye.

The doctor administered the medicine to put her to sleep, ending the suffering she had experienced in her final days. Brie and I wept over Isis. Her time had come, there was no question, but having to part ways with her was almost too much to bear.

Moments after she passed, two yellow butterflies fluttered past us. My mom had always told me to look for yellow butterflies after she died. That, she told me, would be a sign that she was near. I hoped that seeing them meant Isis had joined her, another yellow butterfly guardian to remind me of the love I’ve had along the way.

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