The Unexpected Empath

I burst into tears when Marner scored. It looked like the Leafs were going to win.

I flung myself across the couch, face buried in my arms. I gulped and sobbed. I couldn’t bear it. And then the unexpected empath crossed my path.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

For as long as I can remember, Saturday night meant Hockey Night in Canada and in particular, the Toronto Maple Leafs.

When I was a wee girl, I’d crawl up into my dad’s lap and we would watch the games together. At first, I didn’t understand the game and frankly, I didn’t care. I was hanging with my Daddo, cuddled up while the team in the black-and-white shirts played the team in the white-and-black shirts. It was pre-1967, pre-color TV, and the Leafs were in their glory days.

I could feel my dad’s arms tense up when a player took the puck across the blue line, like he was going to help them score. He’d cheer, he’d swear, he’d talk to the players like he was their coach. And I got to cheer along—but I never dared to cuss like he did. I was his little princess.

If Dad was feeling flush, he’d order a pizza during the second period and drive into town so that we could have a treat in the third period. We lived in the boonies, and the round trip took him the full intermission. To this day, it was the best pizza I’ve ever eaten.

For 55 years, we’d watch together or talk about the Leafs game by phone. Through Wendel, Darryl and Lanny, from Keon and Gilmour to Marner and Matthews, we covered them all.

In recent years, when we’d visit on Sunday mornings, we’d recap the game and read the Sunday Sun to garner more insight into the inner workings of the team. I’d tell him my favorite players and plays, and he’d agree or disagree. I got him loving Kaberle. He didn’t, at first.

I burst into tears because I miss all of that; I miss the easy camaraderie and the eternal optimism that my dad held for the Leafs. I miss that special bond we had.

In the days before he died, he called me his little Tubbins—a nickname he favored for his round-faced five-year-old princess. He hadn’t called me that in years. Probably not since pre-1967, when the Leafs were in their glory days.

When I threw myself face-down on the couch, those hot tears plunked against the leather seat, and I felt so, so alone. My heart hurt, and I was inconsolable.

Until the unexpected empath crossed my path.

I felt a warm push against my arm and head. I knew it wasn’t my husband—because he felt just as helpless and hurt as I. And our resident healer and canine empath was lying on his bed in the kitchen, and his way of showing care is to whine loudly. So it wasn’t him.

No, instead it was our little black mischief-maker, the trickster, the goofball—it was Guinness the cat.

Guinness, sensing something terribly wrong, pushed and rubbed against me until I raised my head to look at him. And then he rubbed against me again.

Funny how my dad didn’t like cats much, but he loved visiting Guinness. Guinness would cuddle up beside him or sit on his lap. My dad often said that our little black cat was lucky, the luckiest cat in the world.

It’s strange how cats have a reputation for being aloof, because Guinness is happy to come when he’s called, and he loves being around people.

But I’d never considered him an empath until Marner scored and the ugly sobs began.

How lucky we are, to have four-legged creatures who comfort us. How blessed we are, to have memories that are worth sobbing over. Our loss, yes, it hurts tremendously. But opening our hearts to grief also expands our ability to love if we let it. And I must think that our little unexpected empath Guinness knew exactly what he needed to do to remind us how lucky we are.