Our beloved cat Cindy left us just over a year ago, on January 13th of 2018. Losing a pet isn't "like" losing a member of your family; it is losing a member of your family. For me, my wife Brenda, and our daughter Meghan, saying goodbye was difficult, heartbreaking, trying to comfort our kitty as she drew her last breath. My eyes still sting at the memory.
Catharsis was necessary. Brenda immediately threw herself into the work of packing up all of Cindy's things, which we would donate to Cindy's vet (whom Cindy hated, but we loved). Meghan looked back at her photos of Cindy, collecting them for Facebook and Instagram. I wrote a blog piece. We were so, so sad.
Something else happened, a little later. I don't remember how long it was after Cindy passed. It wasn't very long--maybe a month or less, or even a week or two? It was still winter, a chill outside, a huge, icy moon casting its beacon over the snow-topped houses of our suburban neighborhood. I was sitting on the couch in our family room, watching TV. Meghan was upstairs in her room, engaged with her laptop. Brenda was reading in the living room. Brenda called to me quietly. Carl. Can you come in here please?
I ascended the four steps to the kitchen, and walked into the living room. Brenda's face displayed a unique mix of mourning and something else, something undefinable. Look, she said. She pointed to the floor below our picture window, where Cindy's scratching pole had stood for years, the spot where Cindy's spirit had left her body behind on January 13th. Do you see it?
The moonlight showed through the window, filtered by the fold of the curtains. It cast a silhouette upon the floor, a bright, shining shape that was distinctive and unmistakable.
It was the shape of a cat.
The ears were clearly defined, perked up as Cindy's often were. The tail was coiled, like Cindy's. The shadow cat's image stood alert, at attention, in the place where we'd just bid farewell to our kitty. The spot...glowed. It was more luminescent than any bit of moonlight I'd ever seen reflected on any floor or carpet, ever. We called Meghan downstairs. She saw it, too.
We tried to take a picture of it, but it was impossible. Nonetheless, we know what we saw. We all know what we saw.
Cindy.
I don't believe in the mystic. My head tells me this was all a trick of the light, a convincing, comforting illusion. My heart insists it was one last message from the one we'd lost: It's okay, guys. Really. I'm going to watch over you now, just like you took care of me for 16 years. Thank you for being my family. Love, Cindy.
A year later, I still think I hear Cindy's paws coming down our stairs when I'm watching television. I still expect to see her litter box in the corner of our hallway. If it's a late day getting home, I still think I need to hurry back so I can feed an impatient, hungry kitty. These impressions last but a second, as I remember Cindy is no longer there.
We don't forget. We can't forget, and we shouldn't forget. It's okay, guys. We miss you Cindy, and we hope the moonlight suits you. Wherever you are.
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