We should have known better.

Feline leukemia virus is not “nothing.”

We, of all people, should have known better.

But when the choice is to know better or to know deeper, we choose to dive.

“Lucky.” I bristle at the word, so I will not say we have been “lucky” with our FeLV+ cats.

How shall I describe it? We have been granted a reprieve and a rejoicing. We have been gifted a glimpse of how gloriously ordinary their lives can be.

The FeLV+ cats of Quinn’s Corner have been largely hale and rebelliously hardy. Nearly a dozen have been adopted. At least two made it their goal to become our generation’s Beastie Boys.

Ponce and Andy. Dewie and Trifecta. Sammy and Regina, and all the rest. They dare us to forget. They provoke us to proclaim: FeLV+ cats can flourish, and fill laps and lives. They can outlive expectations and get grim faces to laugh.

The virus is feared for…some reason, but we forget.

We forget, because we remember the daily resurrections in front of us. Also, all those adoptions.

But in between, losses come. Tortellini. Durin. Unicorn. Charles. Tucker. Sweetie. Mr. Man.

And then Puff‘s dandelion shudders.

We are kneed in the stomach by what we know. Feline leukemia virus is unpredictable, even by the best vet team on Earth. There is no way to predict which cats will scale decades and which will fade quickly. There is no cure. There is no way to guard our hearts.

This is why we built Quinn’s Corner, of course. “These cats” — these sensational, deserving, divine cats — have few other options.

So they come to us, becoming ours, making us theirs.

Making us forget, until we can’t.

Puff, the magic shag carpet, was supposed to be the grandmother. The gentlest cat in Quinn’s Corner filled our arms with her fluff, purring and profound. We made wishes on each wavy hair.

We pictured her on the front page of the local paper on her 22nd birthday, reporting her secrets to longevity were forgiveness, gratitude, and starting each day listening to Shakira.

Most creatures are made of carbon and other common elements, but Puff’s molecules were rare. She was pieced together with patience and astonishment. She approached each lap like a jackpot. She welcomed cats, people, and mundane moments like favorite grandchildren.

She made a thousand wishes and watched them come true.

She lived to rock the greatest haircut this world has ever seen. It was a breakthrough in the fields of cosmetology, metaphysics, and sculpture. It was a tribute to Tina Turner c. 1989, although we all know who was simply the best.

It was the most elegant, ladylike, noble form of “naked” this side of the Riviera. It bore some resemblance to a radish, and total resemblance to radiance. It happened in the interest of hygiene, but Puff is a hygenius. Never has a shave-down been so celebrated.

Puff’s new ‘do emphasized her body type, “angel hair pasta.” She was downy velvet stretched over ribs and hips. Puff did not appear capable of bench pressing Buicks, or carrying all her groceries upstairs in a single trip.

Yet Puff had the power to command love’s legions.

Puff had a fleet of chariots and countless people competing to stroll her on any given day. Puff had volunteers who would wait all afternoon for the chance to feed her. Puff had old and young, lined up simply to bask in her Puffdom.

Puff did not have time to talk about the knotty days before Tabby’s Place. She did not talk about her brushes with the end, one of which was so close, I actually drafted a Forever Loved a year ago, then deleted it with joy.

Grandmothers only want to talk about their grandchildren, and Puff only ever wanted to talk about her people.

Puff talked about you every time your eyes met. Her gaze turned all gold and gooey, as though you were the one she was always waiting for. (You were.)

Puff talked about you every time you pushed her stroller. Between birdsong and blue skies, your heartbeats would agree on a single rhythm, a calming kick-drum for two best friends.

Puff talked about you when you turned into a lap, that strange superpower that humans have.

Puff heard what you didn’t say. If you plopped down in Quinn’s Corner, feeling deflated or defeated by the day, her woolly feet would find you. You would learn that there are times when only a bony sage in a shag haircut can puff you back to your full size.

No wonder we feel breathless and small today.

A morning thick with thunderstorms gave way to blue skies, perfect for strolling weather. But between the sunshowers, Puff went into respiratory distress. An X-ray revealed heart failure. Love’s path was clear. Puff closed her eyes at the center of the circle of love.

She had lived in full, whispering over every good moment: “grow!” She is whispering it still.

We should have known that no cat can live “forever,” at least not the frail forever measured in years. We should have known better, but we are the stubborn sort who only knows deeper.

We know that FeLV is unforgiving, but a deeper magic has used it for good.

We know we don’t want any cat to be infected, but this “bad” news has given us our best friends.

We know that life is a dandelion puff, but we trust that bright yellow hope returns and returns.

We dig beneath despair. We hear Grandmother Puff, prodding us to love the next one, and the next, and the next.

We trust we will hold her again. I believe this to the very ends of my hairs.

I believe FeLV will end, but life will not.

Until we meet again, Puff, thank you for being ours. We were so much more than lucky.

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