Twenty-one years ago this December, my family packed up our house, sold half of our possessions and moved from the middle of Nowheresville, central California to a southeast Philadelphia suburb, King of Prussia. We went from a ranch house and expansive, open land complete with a three-story clubhouse and dry bed creek to a nine-story concrete building with 135 apartments in our building alone. Part of the downsizing meant we had to leave our beloved pets behind, two cats, a chameleon and our dog. My brother and I were most displeased by this, but the apartment complex we were moving to did not permit animals of any kind. Completely unaware of what an apartment even was, I just figured whoever made up such a stupid rule never had a kitty of their own.
During the eighteen months that my family and I lived in this apartment, I grew terribly sad for a cat. My dad, being innovative and desperate to appease me, even made me a Paper Mache cat to tide me over until we could move into a house of our own. The FIRST thing we’ll do after we move, my parents promised, is go to the shelter and get you a cat.
We moved to a house towards the end of October in 1990, and the very next weekend, I made my parents hold their end of the promise. My mom, my brother and my best friend KD and I went to the Conshohocken SPCA to pick out a cat.
I remember very clearly the large room we were taken into; the metal cages in rows & tiers aligned against two walls with a large wired cat sanctuary cage against another wall. Dogs and cats were here, each of them showing off their big, sad eyes, hoping someone would take them home. My brother tried to convince me to get a dog instead, impressed with a basset hound who kept running back and forth in its cage, barking at us to notice it. I was overwhelmed as I peered into each cat cage, trying to get a sense of which one would be best. KD wandered over to the top end cage of the far wall where a pretty orange & white cat stood tall and aloof.
“Hey, Rach, I think you should pick this one!”
I walked over just as she curled her finger at the cat, cooing, “Hi, kitty, kitty.”
The cat hissed at us, causing KD to retract her hand quickly, shaking her head as she said, “Don’t pick that one, Rachael!”
For whatever reason…I crouched down to peer into the bottom end cage and there was a mother cat and three little black kittens. The tiniest kitten caught my attention.
“I FOUND HIM!”
Peek-a-boo!
The SPCA helper came over, unlatched the cage for me and told me that two were already spoken for, but the smallest, the runt, still needed a home. She let me hold him, and I knew instantly we were meant to be together. He was my kitty, and I was his new mommy. I couldn’t adopt him right away; he needed another couple of weeks for weening and to get old enough to be neutered. When I brought him home two weeks later, I named him Mr. Destiny.
For Christmas, I shall give you the gift of me.
Mr. Destiny and I bonded instantly; he took my overzealous smothering in stride and I knew that even though he wandered off from time to time, he would always come back to us, his family. Mr. D became so in tuned with me, quickly catching on to my heart defect, that he was able to sense my tachycardia before they even happened. He would sit and stare at me, then begin to meow in such a way as he never would for anything else, like an alarm. When the life-threatening rapid heart rate would strike 15-30 minutes later, we knew what he was yelling about.
What? I was just organizing it for you.
When it was time to move house and go back to California, I made it perfectly clear there was no way in hell I would be leaving this cat behind. Having no intention of making me part with Mr. Destiny, my mom decided to drive across the USA with me and the cat in tow. For seventeen days, the three of us saw America and all of its splendor. Mr. Destiny had a lot of fun, but mom and I still thank whatever cosmic force was watching over us the day we drove through Yellowstone and got stared down by a bison – while Mr. Destiny slept peacefully under the seat, missing the entire event.
Happiness is a warm, loving shoulder to sleep on.
To the rest of the animal kingdom, Mr. Destiny was a threat, the big badass feline, and he refused to share space with any other animal on this planet save for the dog we adopted shortly after we adopted him. Even those two eventually parted ways, our dog given to my grandmother for her spacious backyard while Mr. Destiny trekked it along with mom and I as we continued to move throughout Southern California.
What laundry?
He was an insanely intelligent cat; I knew he understood every single word I said to him. He listened, and he obeyed very diligently. I never understood the stereotypical apathetic cat whose only goal in life was to torture its human slave and get as much food as possible. Mr. Destiny was never like that; he genuinely loved being with me and constantly sought my attention, laying on whatever was directly in front of me just so I understood that I should paying attention to him instead. He wanted to be held all of the time, but not in a traditional cat holding way, no, no. I was only eight years old when we adopted Mr. D and the only way I knew how to hold anything was like a baby, and Mr. D became accustomed to this. If anyone attempted to hold him in any other way other than on your shoulder like a toddler or on his back, cradled, he would fussily worm his way back down on all fours and walk away, disgusted.
Skill required for cat holding position: multitasking.
He was a constant source of humor, love, cuteness, support and comfort, not to mention a wealth of intelligence and marvel. He always knew when I was sad or sick; he knew to leave me alone when I was angry and that I should expect a sentient silent treatment for the first twenty-four hours upon arriving home after a vacation he deemed too long away from him. There was no cat on this earth like Mr. Destiny.
Licking catnip from a plate.
I never wanted to think about life without him, though I was prompted to a number of times by callous individuals who shall remain nameless. As the years wore on, however, I couldn’t help but notice a distinct lack of energy in Mr. Destiny. Sure, he would still play when a string or pen dangled before him, but he no longer asked to go outside…he meowed a lot more, howled even, and seemed lost from time to time. His fur took on a strange texture, like a well-loved fleece, and he wanted to be held and babied even more. He was growing old and there was nothing I could do about it.
One of the many baskets Mr. Destiny took over.
I passed on a study abroad program, refusing to be away from Mr. D for so long, and when I did travel it was in shorter spurts than my usual four week adventures. In 2006, I brought him to the family home for Christmas, despite the new dog who Mr. D hated and wanted to tear to ribbons. I successfully kept them apart, Mr. Destiny spending most of his time between his basket I brought and my Grandma’s closet. I just didn’t feel like leaving him at home that year…Christmas wouldn’t have been the same.
Then, in April 2007, while visiting my dad in North Carolina, I received the unthinkable phone call from my mom: Mr. Destiny was very ill, come home. I left that instant and was on a plane bound to Los Angeles by way of Fort Worth Dallas via American Airlines. AA told me all skies are clear – no problems within sight – I should arrive at LAX on time. This is what they told me at the Raleigh-Durham airport. As soon as I was up in the skies, however, there was NEW talk about a big ass storm in Fort Worth Texas grounding all of the planes – what?! We land and sure enough, my connector flight is delayed. Frustrated at the lack of information, I plug in my cell phone and get a hold of my mom, who says Mr. D has been in a slumbering coma all day but is still breathing. I tell her to put the phone on speaker and when she does, I talk to my baby and tell him to hang on, mommy’s on her way, don’t give up now. He starts to move; he hears my voice. Invigorated by this development, I storm over to the AA info desk and demand some mother fucking news; planes are leaving by now, but ours is still grounded. The guy behind the desk tells me there is a plane headed to LAX in another wing and he’ll put me on stand-by. I RUN RUN RUN RUN across the airport, easily 1/3rd of a mile (yes, that airport is that big) and make it to that plane. My luggage is lost in airline space, but who gives a damn at this point? I make it to LAX where my brother and his girlfriend were waiting, having driven straight from Las Vegas to grab me after my mom called them earlier that evening. We find out my luggage was put on another flight, a flight that American Airlines booked me on BUT DID NOT TELL ME ABOUT (thanks, American. I’ll never be flying you again!) and I put my name on the list of luggage needing delivery and book it home.
Mom has Mr. Destiny lying on a soft towel in the living room, and I rush to his side and pet him, and talk to him. As soon as he hears my voice he opens his eyes. He waited, knowing I wouldn’t miss his passing for anything or anyone else in the whole, wide world. Soon, he is gone – back to wherever we all come from, be it some ethereal plane, or pure energy dissolved back into the cosmic fabric of our existence.
I can say without a shadow of a doubt that the day he died was the worst day of my entire life. There is nothing I would not have done for that cat; he loved me so unconditionally and I him.
There are people on this planet that do not understand the bond between animals and humans, and I pity those people. I think it’s ludicrous for people to even begin to think that our “big brains” make us somehow superior to the other animals. We’re all on this planet together, we all came from the same spark of life, whatever your belief system dictates that is.
For many people, their animal friends/pets act as a surrogate sibling or child that brings them more comfort and companionship than a human in that position could ever procure. Mr. Destiny was a little bit of everyting for me – sibling, best friend, child – he was with me from the ages of eight to twenty-four and a half. I grew up with him riding shotgun on my shoulder, privy to many stages of my life. For sixteen and a half years my cat’s official name may have been Mr. Destiny, but he will always be my Baby to me.
He’s not pissed, I promise you. He was purring, kneading and head butting my lips for kisses.
