Life is all about timing

and so is death

It was improbable that my cat would die when she did. But she did. And it’s got me thinking about destiny.

I adopted her, a tiny tortoiseshell-colored longhair, with my ex’s daughter. The daughter was fourteen, and the cat was one. The daughter picked the cat, whose Shelter Name was Nymphadora — a Harry Potter reference. I renamed her Truly Scrumptious — a Chitty Chitty Bang Bang reference.

Four years earlier, before having a boyfriend with a daughter was an idea in my mind, I used to wash my hands every time I touched an animal. Even the indoor types. I was never a cat person. I was never an animal person. But living with cat owners, the girl and her father, acquainted me with the sweetness of caring for something and the companionship an animal offers. And once I was alone — no school pickups, no family dinners — the nights felt dark. Before Truly.

Nude with Cat, Nathaniel Kaz (1935-1940)

Truly lived with me for two years as I grieved — an old me, an old idea of the future, the ‘normal’ circumstance to fraternize with the daughter I so adored, or, as I often wondered, a latent grief for my mother.

Before Truly lived with me, she was another cat, too. A street cat. She’d even had babies, the shelter staff said. With me, she started to know the comforts of life, but not to the extent of the phrase... My life wasn’t exactly comfortable. I was, in some ways, in my street cat era (although the pregnancies would come later).

I learned, unlike Truly, that I would never be rescued. I needed to do that for myself. And to do so, I knew it meant moving somewhere a cat couldn’t join. My dad, who was always there for me after my mom passed, offered to be there for her while I went to Europe.

It had been two decades since my dad lost his wife, who wasn’t old enough to die. A year after we lost her, my dad got us a dog — a Welsh Corgi. Fifteen years later, when that dog passed, grieving wasn’t any easier. He told himself he’d ‘never do that again.’ Loss was too painful.

I moved to Europe. Then to England. My dad would send me SnapChats of Truly most days. Her laying beside his leg on his butter-yellow suede couch. Her chin on his knee. Him petting her back. She looked so comfortable.

It had only been a few months of their cohabitation when his sisters, my aunts, told me it’d be cruel to take Truly back. I knew it, too. I knew my dad would love Truly. She was a good cat. But it was more than that. My dad wouldn’t have taken a pet into his home if it wasn’t to help me out. But he ought to have. Truly was good for him. And he was good for her.

No matter how meant-to-be it felt, I still felt guilty for leaving my three-year-old cat. Like I felt for leaving that fourteen-year-old girl. Whether or not it was my choice, my fault, or my responsibility. No matter if it was too soon, too late. No matter the cause or timing, loss hurts.

This last August, Truly died. She was 10. It felt too soon.

She died while my husband, two boys, and I spent a few weeks in Minneapolis, where I grew up, where my dad lives, where Truly lived, and where my ex’s daughter lives.

I’d had dinner with that daughter the day before Truly died. We’ve stayed in touch all these years because we wanted to. We shared over this dinner things we’d not quite said out loud, though they were always obvious — we were so glad to have met each other, to be in each other’s lives, and though we wished things had worked out differently at the time, we know it was meant to be as it’s been.

I had to grow up. Out of the girl who didn’t like animals. Who hadn’t really grieved the big loss she’d had so young. To be ready to really welcome love. To have a family without holding back from all the losses that would surely come once more, but hopefully not too soon.

When my dad arrived to tell me that Truly was sick — really sick — the day after that dinner, I was surprised. Yet, for some reason, I was also not surprised.

Truly came into our lives to help us. She helped me. She helped my dad. And she was leaving during the three weeks of the year when she could say goodbye to us both. At a time in my dad’s life when there was still time for him to change his mind. To choose to do it one last time. To adopt a pet. To welcome love in.

My dad and I brought her to the emergency vet. As we sat alone, saying goodbye to our cat, Truly, he told me how he felt after our Corgi died so long before. How he’d sworn to never do this again. How it hurt too bad to lose someone. Yet here he was. I told my dad that I was glad he had the love he had when he had it. I was sad he wouldn’t have it anymore in his, god willing, another two/few decades. I knew it wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but I said, “You know, you could do it again.”

The next day, he said he’d thought about it.

I said I hoped he would. “I think Truly wants that.”

He scoffed. It sounded trite.

“No, really,” I said. “What are the odds she’d die when I was here? What are the odds she’d die this young? If she’d lived another decade, there’s no way you’d adopt another cat.”

He agreed. There was no way.

Truly was a gift to us all. Love, in all its forms, is a gift. But we must choose it — even if the timing doesn’t feel right, even knowing that one day the time will feel wrong. I think that’s what destiny is — timing. And knowing how big our world is, with billions of people and millions of cats, isn’t it magic to think you crossed paths with the right ones to find love? That sounds like great timing to me. Which I know is an odd way to describe dying, which is never great, but is just a matter of when. And why not see the when as divine?

I dedicate this piece to my friend, Kelly Keenan Trumpbour, who lost her cat last month.

Not a day goes by that I take your readership for granted. Thank you for choosing to celebrate love with me each Monday. I hope reading this trickles out into your real life loves.

This week is a Praxxxis week — I’ll see you in your inbox on Thursday.