On the first day of winter, we are thinking of two cats who did not make it out of autumn.
You didn’t meet them. But as members of the Tabby’s Place family, you met them where they were.
They were not here long, but they will be with us forever.
On the first of winter, the air is almost thin enough to see all the way through.
You know what I mean. You stumble into the kitchen, not yet caffeinated or sensible, and you see your old white cat out the corner of your eye. She is there, although she has been gone since the winter of 2002. She is there, and no one can tell you otherwise.
Or you step into the parking lot, squinting under lights that feel too festive this year. The chill makes a run for your lungs, but the warmth is faster. For the first time since the last time you saw your black cat’s face, you know he never left. He walks with you, and no one can tell you otherwise.
No one told you about Pandowdy or Fangs, yet you would have loved them like your own. They slipped our grip in autumn, but we are still holding on.
Pandowdy was the only kitten ever cute enough to bear that name. Had she lived, some toddler would be dottering after her in footie snowman pajamas today, babbling, “Dowdy, Dowdy, Dowdy.”
But as it is, the littlest cat in the litter would not live to see her own toddlerhood. A pandowdy is an old-timey dessert, and the sweetest, smallest cat was ancient before her years.
Yet years are not love’s only currency, and Pandowdy exchanged them for gold that lasts. Her sojourn at Tabby’s Place was a tour of foster homes, the better to fill as many arms as possible. If we really understood angels, our trees would be topped by people in blue jeans, seraphs who stay up all night so a dying kitten leaves loved. Instead of stars, we would crown evergreens with veterinary technicians and volunteers, bleary-eyed from sleepless mercy.
Despite our angels’ efforts, Pandowdy would not see old age. But she saw what most wait a lifetime to glimpse. When your season is a matter of days, every door on the Advent calendar is open. When you will not cross autumn’s horizon, every day is Christmas and your birthday.
Her siblings, Crisp and Cobbler, keep growing. They are out there in forever homes, making mischief among the candy canes and casseroles. Yet in the good hands of memory, Pandowdy is full-sized and fully alive. She has gone, yet she is near, and no one can tell us otherwise. It is the first of winter, and we see her.
No sooner had the kitten’s green leaf fallen from the tree, than shock shook our trunks again.
“Fangs has passed away.”
I read the text message three times, still not comprehending. Fangs was thriving. Fangs was on hold to be adopted. Fangs had teeth like Halloween and a heart like Valentine’s Day. Fangs should have been planning a heist on his first Thanksgiving turkey.
But the cat the color of Santa’s sooty footprints could not stay for milk and cookies. His future was found on some map we cannot unfold. We flooded our phone screens with weeping for the storybook slammed shut. The stray with the smile was supposed to survive. The acrobat from Animal Control deserved a family circus. We were counting on Fangs’ grin to melt the frost in a home of his own.
Yet in December, Fangs makes himself felt.
It is the first of winter, and the old cat, soft as your favorite fleece, is not done keeping us cozy. Memory is the warmest hoodie, and love is a scarf with no ends. Fangs found his forever home, and I do not doubt that he lives there, just outside the corners of their eyes.
Fangs found out that his stubborn smile was right all along. His faith in kindness became sight. We see him no more, but he is with us, and no one can tell us otherwise.
And, dear ones, staff and volunteers and donors and low-flying angels, you were with him.
You were with Pandowdy.
You met them where they were, because the light precedes and outlives everything.
It is the first of winter, and the veil is thin.
If you feel love very near, you are not mistaken.