*disclaimer: written exhausted and posted with typos, very raw*
My cat is the reason I know that everything happens for a reason. If you’ve read my memoir, you already know that Indy and Java both died at 6 years old, 6 weeks apart. It tore up my life and my heart in a way that was indescribable. At the time I had been training for the Rock N Roll Marathon, I'd trained to mile 18 of 26.2 miles. I was only four weeks away from race day and after five months of training, I quit. I couldn’t face life. I couldn’t breathe, let alone run.
At that time I was living in the first home I ever purchased, a brand new condo in the heart of Mission Valley, San Diego. I’d bought the house before it was built, and designed it from the ground up. I loved everything about that house, including that it was a stone’s throw from Qualcomm stadium where my San Diego Super Chargers played football.
Once the cats died I couldn’t stand the house. Everything in it reminded me of a happiness I once felt, and everything about the master suite with it’s gorgeous carpet, large walk-in closet, jacuzzi tub, beautiful grey slate floors in the bathroom and Siberian Ice paint from Frazee reminded me of how much my husband (at the time) was unable to help me through my depression.
After the boys died I immediately got another cat. A kitten. I brought him home from the Coronado Animal Shelter. He laid on the couch in “super kitty” pose, as I called it, and I lost it. The next day I took him right back.
I felt so guilty about returning the kitten that I began volunteering at the humane society (my second volunteer job) in addition to volunteering at the hospital with my greyhound, Rio. I knew I wasn’t ready for another family member, my marriage was falling apart. But I kept looking at all the cats and kittens that came in anyway.
Every week I would spend time in nine different kennels, playing with the little fur balls. And each day I healed the wounds from Indy and Java. I put the house up for sale. I couldn’t take the pain of seeing all my failures and losses in life every day. The day I put it up for sale I began training for the next marathon. This time I was running it for the boys, and this time I wasn’t going to quit.
I found a new house, one with an ocean view, a perfect 1928 Craftsman in Ocean Beach. I took on remodeling with gusto. I ripped up the 1970’s carpet and refinished the original white oak flooring. I redid the kitchen with all LG Stainless appliances. I painted 14 custom colors. I even installed a white picket fence. Shabam. The American Dream.
It was so perfect that the real estate company came out and took pictures, to use us and the house as the “picture perfect real estate transaction” for their website.
But it didn’t change the fact that I was suffering. I was in pain. I used these projects to cover up a miserable marriage and the hole in my heart.
I was still training for the marathon, running an average of 9 miles on a Wednesday night. I changed up my run a lot, 9 miles gets boring if it’s the same scenery. I ran down Newport Avenue and saw a pet store. I was at the end of the run, and in the cool down, I began to walk. When I got to the entrance of the pet store I walked in.
I don’t know why. I had no wallet. I had no money, my house key was laced through my tennis shoe. I introduced myself to the lady, and within minutes we were talking about Indy and Java, and my volunteer work. As it turned out, she only takes rescues from the animal shelter to put up for adoption. She mentioned kitten season was approaching, and I told her I was well aware, but not ready to adopt.
I left. Two days before the marathon, I came down with a horrible sinus infection. The Urgent Care doctor wrote me a prescription for antibiotics and then suggested against me running the race.
At 4am race day, I popped the Z-Pak and suited up for the 26.2. I finished the marathon in 4:59. Approximately one half hour slower than I wanted, but under 5 hours, which was my goal.
Two days later, I walked from the house down to Newport, to stretch my legs post race. I walked into the pet store. The lady was giddy to see me, to say the least. The kittens were in.
I wasn’t about to adopt, but followed her to the back of the store, where she had them out of the public eye until they were old enough…just for curiosity sake.
There in the top of the kennel were 7 kittens. “You get first pick she said, whichever one you want, it’s yours.”
That’s when I spotted Dash. He was sleeping in the bottom kennel. “Where’d this little guy come from?” I asked.
“He was found on the streets of Hillcrest a few weeks ago. He’s a grump. I’m just not sure he’s ready for the floor, but if I can adopt him out I can get more kittens from the shelter.” She said.
“Can I…” I started.
“Of course,” she said. “Be careful, he’s a Bengal, 3rd generation removed from the wild.”
It just so happened, I was wearing the sweatshirt I held Indy in as a kitten, and the same sweatshirt I’d held Java in the night he died.
Dash sat in my lap, and started pawing at the hood strings and I melted. He started licking my fingers and right then, I knew he was meant for me.
I adopted him the very next day.
That was over 2 years ago. Tonight I sat on the bougy couch (which if you’ve read the book, you know the importance of) with my tealight tray candles from Thailand burning when Dash came up and plopped down in my lap.
Right now he and I are both 585 miles away from where I adopted him, and light years away from the life I had when I met him. Dash sat in my lap licking my fingers as I wiped my salty tears through my divorce. Dash moved with me 5 times in the last two years, and Dash sat in the passenger seat on 4 road trips to Georgetown, including one to finish Teetering on Disaster, my memoir.
An old new (yes I said that) friend posted on my Facebook wall today, “read this and thought of our convo while walking....when you love someone it's not how you feel about them that is important...it's how you make them feel about their self that matters!”
It’s funny because there’s no way she could’ve known the affect her post would have on me. But what I do know is that between what she wrote and seeing the life in Dash’s eyes (a life that might not have been here if I hadn’t rescued him) I know that everything happens for a reason. Including Indy and Java dying, my move to Ocean Beach and my divorce.
On the rough days in life, I have to find that space, the place deep within me that tells me a higher power is guiding me when I get lost, a divine being is holding my heart when I hurt or I’m afraid, and in that I have to believe.
God holds my hand, in this I trust.