Her name was as common as a generic grey sweatshirt.
Her habitat was cubbies and crannies, cul-de-sacs off the main street of attention.
But the quietest cat in the Tabby’s Place Lobby knew how to love, loud and clear.
By the time we met Miss Kitty, she had over a decade of love under her (sizable) belt.
The well-upholstered senior had known the softness of a family sofa. Though she was now elderly, her plush body overflowing with rolls like regal robes, she had once been someone’s little grey cat.
By no fault of anyone, Miss Kitty and her family had to part ways. If she were still a “little grey cat,” she would have had many options. But castles are scarce for an arthritic, 18-pound senior with a broken heart.
Fortunately for Miss Kitty and for us, she only needed one.
And so it happened: the people of hope welcomed a sterling silver queen.
As volunteers stroked her weary cheeks, the tarnish of fear melted away. Miss Kitty unfurled her secrets. She was not merely grey, but silver. She was the cloud cover that feels like a comforter. She was the cozy drizzle that gives you permission to stay inside, light candles, and read an old novel that feels like home.
Yet Miss Kitty needed no permission to make herself at home.
New cats sometimes struggle to make sense of Tabby’s Place. We empathize. Going from a house to our Lobby must feel like being dropped in Times Square. Exuberant people are bustling your way with food carts. Some guy named Deku is claiming he’s the real Elmo and trying to sell you selfies with himself. There are many unidentified odors. People burst into song without warning.
Miss Kitty remained a paragon of poise.
She surveyed our realm with approval. Yes, this met her standards nicely. The cat beds resembling hairy coconuts were very Architectural Digest. The reception desk was a throne worthy of history’s greatest rulers (e.g., Nefertiti, Elizabeth I, Prescott). And all those flappy, happy human hands were just itching to give chin skritches.
Miss Kitty felt as new as a shiny silver dollar.
Sometimes, this led to surprises.
Like all great leaders, Miss Kitty made the highest and best use of her time. Her priorities included: becoming extremely unconscious on the reception desk, becoming extremely unconscious in the beds under the reception desk, becoming extremely unconscious in the cubbies behind the reception desk, and providing pro bono mindfulness meditations for harried humans.
(All participants signed a waiver accepting the risk that we, too, might turn drowsy and wake up under the reception desk.)
But every great while, the noble lady hiked up her royal robes to ramble head-first into hooliganism.
You know the meek Meemaw who makes pierogis for the church bazaar, blushes when anyone uses coarse language like “dang” … and then shows up at the family reunion wearing a unicorn horn, cannonballing down the Slip ‘n Slide screaming “this train is bound for glory!”?
That was Miss Kitty. At the first hint of a hijink, the doyenne of dignity turned into the missing member of the Scooby Gang.
Miss Kitty was there when Hips suggested they raid the stationery closet. Miss Kitty was there when Peabody dared her to upend the treat bin, as a service to her subjects. Miss Kitty was there to lead the Lobby cats into Temptations.
The next morning, Miss Kitty was there to rest her chin in your lap and drowse placid into your eyes.
Miss Kitty was there to catch your tears after a painful phone call. Miss Kitty’s fur was as soft as forgiveness when your day was rough as burlap. Miss Kitty was there, like the promise of beauty from ashes, when grief scorched your whiskers.
Miss Kitty was there for all of us, and it felt like we would get to be here, together, forever.
Like our languid lady herself, “goodbye” crept up with little fanfare. Weight loss whittled her down from a Rubens to a Modigliani, but Miss Kitty remained a masterpiece. We brought her fluffier beds and taller pyramids of treats. Her purr was louder, more determined, than before.
We didn’t know she was trying to make sure we were paying attention.
There were things she had to tell us, wisdom to impart before leaving on a journey where we could not follow.
In a cacophony of kidney disease and splenic issues, Miss Kitty’s decline was precipitous. We were left to face love’s hardest answer before we knew there was a question. Mercy’s path was clear. If we loved Miss Kitty, we would let her go.
To the end, Miss Kitty exuded dignity. She was confidence and grandeur in a downy grey duvet. Her presence elevated the proceedings, even when she was dreaming in a coconut on the floor.
Her presence perseveres, even as she goes on to bigger dreams and bolder hijinks in heaven’s coziest cul-de-sac.
Miss Kitty, your love rings loud and clear across Tabby’s Place.
Help us to be comforters for old and young alike.
May we walk in your ways of softness, strength, and not-so-secret silliness.
Your reign will never end.