Today we continue our journey through a difficult season in recent Tabby’s Place history.
We pick up our story just after Graham’s devastating diagnosis…
Like all bullies, death plays dirty, getting in a sucker punch when our guard is down.
But for a moment, it looked like we would have a gulp of good news to cleanse our pain-parched palates.
As Graham battled for life, a smushy-faced gumdrop arrived with laughing eyes and a big surprise.
Blueberry was sweet as pie despite a sad history. The little Persian had been discarded by a breeder, then by the person who purchased her. We were told that Blueberry had severe polycystic kidney disease and was in grave condition.
But, it seemed there was comedy at the core of this tragedy. We gathered hungrily around the light.
Our vet team found nothing wrong with Blueberry’s kidneys — or any of her other fancifully adorable parts. But, she did have a diagnosis: three enormous kittens, so big and boisterous we could almost see them playing on the X-ray.
This joy felt like a dream.
The dream sustained us when grief roared again.
This time, it was Aries, the saint who loved all beings. Our staff filled his final day with sunshine picnics, kisses, and fresh cheeseburgers. Memory, gratitude, and grief danced their whirling gavotte. The gardens behind Tabby’s Place took in our tears.
We talked about Blueberry’s babies, bracing ourselves for the kind of cuteness that is bigger than it seems.
And then … Blueberry lost all three kittens.
In the arms of foster angel Tiana, the brave little Persian gave her all. The two wept together, love clinging to love in the grip of grief. Anyone who claims a cat cannot mourn has never met a Blueberry. Tiana was her strength.
When the news came that Pepita was in her final hours, we all wondered if our strength would fail. A decade-long resident of Tabby’s Place, the sweetest pumpkin had found her bliss in the foster home of our extraordinary Director of Operations, Danielle. Life with Danielle bought Pepita more months than anyone had dreamed.
It was not enough.
And in weeks like this, we feel that we are not enough. Our tenderness feels futile. The tug of war seems hopeless, as life is dragged helplessly by death.
We needed a win.
It came in tortoiseshell patches.
At first, there didn’t seem to be anything “winning” about Starfish. All we knew was that the tiny tortie was found scooting across the street, and that she was affectionate but extremely ill.
The emergency vet confirmed that she was paralyzed and dying.
A septic pregnancy had taken the lives of her kittens, and now greedily grasped at Starfish. Immediate surgery was the only hope.
The stars in her eyes were quiet. Victory seldom shouts.
Our donors had replenished the Linda Fund generously enough that we didn’t need to hesitate. Starfish’s risky surgery was a success. Life leapt to its feet and hurled Starfish back into the family of the living. She was ecstatic with affection, as though it had all been worth it.
Starfish did not see the tug of war.
Starfish did not hear death’s dirge, or glimpse the parade of griefs before her.
All Starfish saw were the gentle faces acting as if, even if she were the last cat on Earth, it would have all been worth it.
And, down the hallway, one lost-and-found soul was feeling his worth for the very first time.
Against all the statistics, against all the odds, against the grain of grief itself, Graham was alive.
If he glimpsed himself in the mirror, he would not have recognized his own face. Gone were the cadaverous cheekbones and fading eyes. In their place were plumpness and starlight, rebirth and appetite.
Death had Graham in both hands, but life had the stronger grip.
For, in the tug of war, life has a secret that death will never know.
In the darkest hour, life can cry out to love.
Love comes running every time.
With muscles of mercy, love changes everything, even when it cannot change the outcome.
Love is the strength to fight for the dying, even when it seems too late. Love tugged Starfish, Graham, and Blueberry back from the brink.
Love is also the power to call it a win in the dust of loss.
We ache for Aries, Pepita, Cupcake, Carson, and the kittens we never knew in this lifetime.
But, far worse would be the hollow hurt of never having loved them at all.
To give our hearts to fragile creatures is never safe. We cannot save every cat. Even when we do, we are granted fifteen, eighteen, twenty-two years, only to face goodbye.
Some people, guarded and armored, would pity us as born losers, subjecting ourselves over and over and over to sorrow.
Let them have their version of a win, the bubble-wrapped tomb sealed against both pain and hope.
We will take the victory streaked with tears, the gladness and the grief.
Some days, you really need a win.
And as long as you love, you will never lose.