If you don’t believe in animal communication, I don’t expect this essay to convince you.
In March of 2021, my sweet big tomcat fell ill unexpectedly.
Now, as any cat owner will tell you, a cat who barfs all over the carpet (the carpet exclusively; never the linoleum or vinyl. A cat will walk half a block to avoid throwing up on any easy-to-clean surface)—anyway, a cat who throws up is nothing extraordinary. Cats are barf machines. So when, early one Sunday morning, Puffy Socks refused his breakfast and vomited, I thought nothing of it. I rubbed some hairball medicine on his paw, earning as dirty a look as any cat owner can be awarded.
But he stopped eating, and, more frighteningly, stopped drinking.
I had encountered this sort of problem before. A nauseated cat will not eat or drink, but failure to stay hydrated can kill the animal quickly.
So I forced water into my poor sick little guy, dropper by dropperful. I tempted him with fresh, cold bottled water poured into a tumbler—don’t ask me why, but cats often prefer drinking from a tall tumbler rather than stooping to drink from a water dish. But Puff grew worse, and finally desperation found me packing him into his carrier at 4:30 in the morning and racing down the road to an emergency veterinary office.
Hundreds of dollars later, all I knew was that he was a very sick animal. He had been hydrated, given anti-nausea meds, prodded and poked and X-rayed. I learned only that Puff, once a feral, had suffered a broken leg at some point, and that he had only one functioning kidney—bad news for a cat who had stopped willingly drinking water.
More trips to my regular veterinary practice followed, with very little change in either his illness or a diagnosis. When I refused an unaffordable CT scan, the veterinarian—the one I didn’t like at the practice, since the vet I usually saw was off work—washed her hands of us. She warned me that Puff probably would not last the month, but refused to even prescribe pain meds, so that my poor little cat would at least not be miserable.
The next night, holding my sick pet cuddled on my shoulder, I stroked him and told him what I thought he needed to hear: “It’s okay if you want to go, sweetie. Mommy will miss you. But you don’t have to stay. You can go if you want to.”
And then came the moment which you may choose not to believe. For, as clearly as if he had spoken the words aloud into my ear, I heard him answer, “I want to stay.”
I could have doubted the reality of what I had just experienced. I could have told myself that I had experienced an auditory hallucination. But I did not. Instead, I took a deep, shuddering breath, hugged his little orange-furred self closer, and answered, “Okay, Big Boy. If that’s what you want, we’re going to do everything we can so you can stay with me.”
I won’t pretend that suddenly everything turned around; that Puff abruptly began to heal; that the despicable vet relented on his treatment; that we didn’t experience more episodes of terrible illness; that I didn’t rack up nearly $2,000 in bills, or make another rushed trip to an emergency office. But from that moment on, both my little cat and I were working toward a different goal: not to let him leave, easily, but to get him better.
A Reiki master for several years, I did not practice the art much, but I had never used it as regularly as I did now on my sick little cat. It didn’t seem to be making much difference, but…Reiki goes where it’s needed, my own Reiki Master Teacher had instructed me. So on Easter afternoon, driving home from my Dad’s house, I suddenly, urgently, knew that I must stop at the nearby pet store. I walked back to the cat food aisle, wondering if I could find a food that would not cause my little cat nausea.
And I did.
Within a few weeks, the cat whom I had been told would be gone in a month or less was recovering.
He ate without vomiting; gained some weight; began to sun himself and scratch evilly at my carpet once more. He was definitely not as robust and strong as he had once been, but he was no longer at death’s door.
Reiki goes where it’s needed. My little cat needed a food he could digest. I needed to find that food.
My preferred veterinarian returned to work and prescribed medications that I could keep on hand for any return bouts of Puff’s still-undiagnosed illness, warning me that it could recur at any time. I accepted that I might not have this sweet animal’s company for a long lifetime. But I knew now just how strong our bond was, and how much I would do to help him—and how much he wanted to be with me.
It’s been a year now since I was told that my big orange boy hadn’t long to live. It’s not all been smooth sailing, but he is still here; still eating his special food, still scratching my carpet, still cuddling on my shoulder to purr; still kissing the faces of favored friends.
The Cat Who Wanted to Stay is still part of my life. Every day I have with him is a gift. And for that I am unimaginably grateful.
If you enjoyed this post, you might also like “The Cat Who Thinks He is a Dog”, which you can locate in the Archives, below, dated June 15, 2018.