By Jen Rinaldi

When grief came, so did a cat

As many of you know from my article in March, our beloved Sully left us on the 25th of that month. On the day he died, I sat on our front porch, staring up at the sky and allowing myself to grieve. As tears streaked my face, a small furry paw touched my shoe.

At my feet was a ginger tom. He had a nasty hematoma caused by ear mites that covered the side of his head with greasy, matted pus, but despite this obvious discomfort, he head-butted me as if to commiserate with my pain. 

We became instant friends.

I called him Isbin, and for the next few weeks, he became my daily battle buddy, allowing me to treat his wound, feed him, and spoil him rotten. Being a feral cat, I immediately worried for his safety, so I decided that when he was healed and tame enough, I would get him fixed and vaccinated. I even imagined him joining us as a new family member. Little did I know he was only a temporary angel. As is the case with so many feral animals, life is harsh, and survival is never guaranteed. 

As the days passed, friends who knew we were dogless offered puppies, and even a Canaan dog like Sully. John and I just couldn’t process having another dog right away, so we spent our time doting on our own cats, plus the strays outside. I would begin the day idly looking at the available pets from our local shelters and some breeders I know, half-heartedly staring at expectant faces, hoping some cosmic spark would ignite me into action. 

Spring crept towards summer, and during that brief period, Isbin taught me how quickly trust can be earned and hearts can heal. He also brought with him other neighborhood cats who still visit today.

Remy the Emerald in the “ruff”

The universe has a way of tying the thread of your life to another when the time is right. One morning I was scrolling through a local social media page from our humane society. They had just posted some pups from a hoarding situation, and among the pictures was a dog named Emerald. A scruffy black and tan mixed breed with a white angel on her chest. I showed my husband John her picture.

A spark flared for both of us. 

Just like that, we drove down to see her and a few of her littermates. Her brothers were bold, wild and sweet, while she cowered in the corner. Normally that would be a reason to avoid a pup, but shy as she was, she cuddled against John and looked me straight in the eyes, as if saying, “I’m the one you seek.”

We brought her home the next day. She has since turned into an adventure-loving girl who is eager to play and explore. During our newest member’s transition into our household, Isbin, my ginger stray, and Timber, his female friend, continued to come by for meals, ignoring the new addition in the backyard. We felt complete, a family again. I gave Isbin his last ear mite treatment and made an appointment for him to be neutered.

The very next morning I went out to find our stray cats’ bowl on the front porch still full and untouched. Distressed, I walked familiar paths, searching for my boy to no avail. Timber came back ragged and skittish a few days later without him.

I even posted a picture on social media, asking if any neighbors had seen my orange boy. Many neighbors mentioned that they had caught images of a mountain lion on home cameras, and the comments led me to believe that most of the feral cats had met their end, including my beloved boy.

But as my ginger angel left, Emerald — now Remy — was there for us. I will never regret adopting her or Isbin for his brief life. Losing both Isbin and Sully will always hurt, but nature can be cruel and kind at the same time. They gave us far more than they ever took. 

So why, despite the pain of losing those we love, do we keep choosing love? Because it is worth it—for them and for us.

I found the piece below at exactly the right time. It expresses far better than I can why we keep opening our hearts, even knowing loss will one day come.

By Hao Liang

Stop pitying the dog owner who is grieving. You think they are trapped in a cycle of madness, choosing to build a life out of twelve-year blocks of guaranteed heartbreak.

You are mistaken; in the wisdom of the Dao, they are not unfortunate people; they are the most courageous among us.

They are collectors of warm shadows. They know the day will come when the silver cord breaks and a hole is torn into their chest, and yet they go right back into the world to find a new soul to break their heart all over again.

Why ask for such pain?

Because in the spirit world, the sacrifice is the medicine. They gladly hand over a piece of their own soul every decade because they know the safe, lonely zone is a desert compared to the messy, warm fire of devotion. They allow their hearts to be shattered a dozen times just to ensure a dozen good dogs get to taste heaven before they must leave. 

It is a sacred trade; the grief at the end is simply the tax we pay for a decade of receiving the purest frequency of love in the universe. Do not fear the shattered heart; it is the only way the light gets in.