There are cats we wrap in hugs and cats we adorn with kisses.

But when it came to Pisa, we only asked one thing.

“Darling, come in from the cold.”

She looked like the gauzy watercolor from an Impressionist’s dream. But Pisa was unimpressed with her own beauty. A sturdy outdoorswoman, she saved her awe for starlight, and tall grasses, and the way the breeze whispers its secrets to those with ears to hear.

We first learned of Pisa from a woman we shall refer to as Sunrise. Though people were not Pisa’s favorite company, she made an exception for this force of nature. She came to trust this faithful light, constant as the dawn. They shared a love language of quiet constancy. Over the years, Sunrise cared for Pisa as though she were the most majestic masterpiece whose paws ever touched the Earth.

Sunrise knew who Pisa truly was.

But when Pisa developed troubling lesions, Sunrise knew the little calico needed a bigger constellation of care. Pisa’s pillar of strength leaned on Tabby’s Place, and we were honored to answer. Pisa came in from the cold.

By the world’s foggy standards, Pisa appeared to be a cat few would “want.” Not only was she too timid to touch, but she was infected with feline leukemia virus (FeLV). Then there were the worrisome spots on her ears, which turned out to be the unforgiving, aggressive squamous cell carcinoma.

She would need surgery, specialized housing, and unconditional acceptance for exactly who she was.

And she would give more than we could ever repay. The world’s loss was our great gain.

The stars utter no words, but night to night they speak volumes: light perseveres over darkness. The universe is steadfast. And there is no force of nature more beautiful than a promise kept. Though she kept her distance, Pisa spoke, too. Her darting eyes settled into pools of peace. Her hunched stance softened into ease. She slow-blinked light and warmth into our eyes. As she learned her place in the gentle Tabby’s Place galaxy, our little loner knew she was loved.

Our vet team removed Pisa’s cancerous ear flaps, a surgery that did not affect her hearing and only made her more adorable (a feat we would not have imagined possible). Her silhouette now as smooth as the full moon, Pisa sunned herself in her solarium, happy and whole as a heavenly body.

Her perfect face flashed a shy thank you — all eyes, no words — for the many little beds, boxes, and bungalows our volunteers provided. I have seldom seen a cat so luminous with bliss.

But Pisa’s peace depended on a clear view of the planets. No matter the weather, no matter how we wooed her, she would not come in.

If you must be an outdoor cat indoors, Tabby’s Place is your answer. Our solariums are starfields and sun-arenas with the benefit of total safety. Most cats come and go between their suite and solarium as the temperature rises and falls, or when something delicious beckons them in. But Pisa loved the sky too much to cross the kitty door often.

She already knew what we were slower to learn: there are many ways to come in from the cold.

Perhaps she also knew that her time under the sun was short.

For over a year, our solitary beauty thrived at Tabby’s Place. She was a staff and volunteer favorite not because she “bloomed” in any pre-determined way, but simply because she was Pisa. She was a star, not a star-shaped sticker for good performance. She was alive, not a painting. She was ours, and we were hers. There is no greater wonder under heaven.

In her final weeks, Pisa entered our orbit closer than ever before. Volunteers, who had been as patient as astronomers waiting for the night’s first comet, earned her trust enough to feed her squeeze-treats. We rejoiced more than NASA’s command room after a successful landing.

We did not know that Pisa was bound for a voyage where we could not follow.

Symptoms flared quickly, like an unforeseen solar storm. Before we could even prepare our hearts (as if such a thing is possible), our vet team diagnosed both kidney failure and a retrobulbar mass behind one of Pisa’s eyes. Mercy meant letting her go before she began to suffer. Love looked like goodbye.

Grief looks like a starless night. We ache for the innocent, dignified, perfect face of Pisa. We would trade the moon for one last slow-blink or wry little smile from her favorite window.

Yet the promise endures.

The light is not extinguished.

And the bond we shared with Pisa, who asked only that we love her just as she was, will bring us back in from the cold.

Until we meet again, beautiful girl, thank you for the warmth of your unwavering light. We will see you every hour of the sundial and in all the shy and brave phases of the moon. We will hear you out where no words are needed and no “goodbye” is final. We will love you, forever.

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