It is impossible to keep a straight face in the presence of one or more kittens.
~Cynthia E. Varnado
One steamy July afternoon in central Arkansas, I was working on an important project in my home office with a dear friend and colleague. My trusty printer was churning out a time-sensitive report when it simply stopped. After fifteen minutes of trying to coax, cajole and tickle the device back into operation, we conceded defeat and left to get some lunch and buy a new printer. Upon our return, my heart froze to see the cul de sac teeming with fire trucks, a web of hoses, and heavily-suited emergency personnel sprinting toward my house.
Despite having spent much of my life crafting prose, I still stumble for adequate words to describe the sick, sinking feeling of seeing your home, business, and belongings going up in flames along with photographs and memories collected over a lifetime. But the panic that filled my stunned heart in that awful moment was for the nine cats that shared my home after being rescued from situations of abuse and abandonment.
Responding to an early security-system alert, the amazing firefighters arrived in record time, but the chemical-laden smoke had already taken its toll. I examined, cuddled, and kissed each cat goodbye, immensely grateful that they had passed gently, without injuries or burns. A dog-lover EMT and the fire chief, who professed a cat-loving wife, assured me they had only taken a couple of breaths before passing. My fur babies had all been found in places they frequented during the day — snuggled on my bed, cupped in a cat tree, nestled on a window sill, and one was even discovered in his favorite hidey-hole behind a 1911 H.P. Nelson upright piano.
Only animal lovers really understand the incredible impact that the loss of one beloved four-legged family member can have on your heart, mind and soul. The loss of so many dearly loved critters sent me reeling.
After staying with another great friend for a couple of weeks, I was relocated to a furnished apartment; rebuilding the house would take months. Overwhelmed by indescribable grief, I made the absolute resolution not to even consider taking in more animals (which friends immediately began to offer) until after returning home, if then. I simply did not have the wherewithal to deal with myself, much less anyone or anything else! The jagged holes in my heart needed time to heal.
The weeks that followed were incredibly rough. It was a time when a maze of critical decisions loomed — securing a contractor, negotiating city permits, maneuvering through cumbersome red tape and over complicated insurance hurdles, replacing everything from toothbrushes to computers, reconstructing tax records, and trying to salvage my business. It was also a time for reassessing my workaholic lifestyle.
One evening, about a month after moving in, I was ensconced in writing a mystery novel (another resolution) when a falsetto “meow” sounded from outside the apartment door. Was it my mind playing tricks again? More than once I had heard, seen or felt the brush of one of my departed furry roommates. The meow grew louder and more insistent. Curious, I opened the door.
Sitting on the doorstep was a kitten with an exotic black coat and alert amber eyes. A neighbor walking by scooped him up and began petting him. When I remarked how cute her kitten was, she explained that he had been born under a bridge in the apartment complex and scrounged around for food. This kitty-loving neighbor was quick to offer an extra litter box if I was interested in giving him a home. My immediate reaction was a facetious “that’s all I need!” After all, my resolution had been well reasoned and remained firm.
As if they had conspired like some pre-coordinated team of flimflam artists, she put the adorable kitten down. Without hesitation or respect for privacy, the little guy sauntered past me into the apartment with a master-of-the-manor air. He took a brief self-guided tour, sniffed here and there, and then curled up on the couch; apparently the residence had passed his inspection. For the first time in what seemed like forever, I genuinely laughed. Not giving me a chance to object, my conspiratorial neighbor appeared with a litter box and enough food for a few days. Wondering when someone had emblazoned a big “SUCKER” on my forehead, I thanked her and closed the door, resolved to just let him stay until a real home could be found. It is mind-boggling how easily one can become steeped in sheer denial!
That night, as I slid between the sheets of the still unfamiliar bed in the still unfamiliar apartment, the feisty little furball plopped onto the bed, yawned dramatically, and nestled by my side. Those who have never shared a snooze with a critter or two may not relate, but that was the first night since the fire that I actually slept. Stubbornly determined not to open myself to more animals — to more pain — I had refused to admit how desperately I missed having a warm fuzzy cuddled close.
Needless to say, the cat community knew the precise prescription for healing far better than I. Over the next few days, the kitten’s hilarious, playful antics drew laughter and affection, in spite of the awful grief tugging at my heart and constant self-reminders he was only visiting for a few days. The name Starlight (Star for short) seemed perfect because that night he brought some light back into my life.
Star grew into a sinewy, sleek black panther-like cat with intelligent eyes the color of sun-kissed bronze. Actually, cat is a misclassification for Starlight; he’s really more like a dog. He craves attention, knows no boundaries, greets workmen at the door, sports a relentless shoe fetish, harasses his fellow felines, and even plays fetch if in the mood. He adores wrestling rubber bands, races up and down the stairs, darts outside anytime the door opens, suddenly appears everywhere I don’t want him to be, holds onto the broom while I’m trying to sweep, rolls in catnip or whatever else happens to be on the floor, and upends every open vessel containing liquid. In hindsight, a better name might have been “Star, Stop It!”
In the five years since the fire, we have been through a lot, Starlight and I. We returned to the house, managed to keep the business alive, replaced belongings as best we could, brought the mystery novel to the final edits before it’s submitted in hopes of publication, and made a lot more resolutions. Star helped me through a massive, albeit untraditional, healing of spirit. The memories of the kitties that passed in the fire now spark only warmth in my heart and winsome smiles. Every single day, I appreciate the serendipitous nature of the Universe that sent me hope in the form of a little black furball.
So take a little advice from my furry friend: no matter how bleak things may become or how fixed your resolve may be, open the door whenever opportunity knocks. It just might be a star to light your way.
— Nancy Sullivan —
