Today is September 13, 2020 and it’s Casey’s birthday. She would have been 25 years old. I lost her when she was 14. Do we ever stop counting?

I never had anything against cats, but I never wanted one.

In spring 2003, I guess I was in a frame of mind to be less selfish and do something constructive with my non-work hours (which should say a lot, since I was working both full- and part-time jobs). When a friend mentioned her volunteerism at a local no-kill animal shelter, it sounded like a good idea. I decided to work on the cattery side because I assumed that I would want to adopt every dog on the dog side. (Famous last words.) I started what would turn into a 10-year stint of on-premises duties at the shelter. Each weekend I would walk into a room full of cats and clean the place from top to bottom. Some of the cats were playful, others were sleepy, and others didn’t pay me any attention. Over time, the cats would come and go, as one would expect at a shelter that aims for forever home pet adoptions. One day in April, I entered the cattery to begin my chores and immediately a new cat walked the tightrope of the ledge on the wall to greet me (looking back, I think she was probably saying, “I don’t belong here. Can you get me out?”). This cat had the greenest eyes and the most beautiful furry face I’ve ever seen. It was Casey, of course, and although it would take time before I’d admit it, I’d fallen in love with her at first sight. Over the course of the summer Casey’s demeanor in the cattery became increasingly depressive and the staff began to worry about her. There was a tall cat tower on the screened-in porch of the cattery that Casey liked to hide in (at the very top). I would have to stand on a chair in order to talk to her and pet her; she took her meals there, too. An email went out to the cattery team, asking if anyone would foster Casey to improve her spirits. My heart lurched and I wrestled with my conscience. I didn’t want a cat, but I also couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else having Casey. I had a lot of ridiculous worries — I’ve never owned a pet, my house is too small, I’m gone too much, etc. But my heart knew that Casey belonged with me. After making the proper arrangements, I went out to the shelter, borrowed a cat carrier from their shed, pulled over a chair to reach Casey in her tower, grabbed her and put into the backseat of my car. Upon arriving at my place, Casey immediately took over. She claimed it as her kingdom, and I was welcome to remain there and do her bidding. I dutifully accepted all of her routines and submitted to all of her demands. She was incredibly intelligent; the type you knew you were actually conversing with. Casey lived with me as a foster for barely a month before I officially adopted her; I couldn’t imagine life without her.

A couple of years later a neighbor, who’d been tending to at least half a dozen stray cats, called a meeting of like-minded people in her immediate vicinity; she was moving out of state and wanted to make sure the strays would have continued care. Although I didn’t advertise it, I was known to be an animal shelter volunteer, and the neighbor’s idea was to transition the strays’ eating location to my front porch, with other soft-hearted neighbors kicking in supplies as they were able. The flaw in that kind of plan, of course, is assuming that someone has the same amount of caring, time, money, inclination, etc., as the next person. In other words, I knew if I accepted the “cat lady down the block” role, it had to be mine alone. I did accept, however grudgingly, and I fed them two meals a day, also providing shelter on my small corner lot. Periodically, a neighbor would leave a food donation, or a $20.00 bill on my porch. The food, I would feed the strays; the money, I would donate to the shelter. Over time, I fell in love with these cats, too, and they came inside to their forever home with me one by one. You’ve met them before: Buddy (DSH, solid grey); Earl Grey/Mr. Grey (DSH, white with grey splotches); Georgie (DSH, brown tabby; went to live at FOHA for a time); Little Mama (DSH, dilute tortie); Blackbeard (DMH, black-brown, secret white patch on his chest); Nissa (DMH, brown tabby, Little Mama’s daughter). Not all of the cats were inside with Casey; it was primarily her, Buddy and Mr. Grey in those earlier years. Casey didn’t like sharing at all, but she made an effort to be a benevolent Empress. In my tiny, awkwardly-designed house, I developed a routine for giving Casey free reign, while the boys had their own room and limited hours in the mix. Eventually, I was working from home, so the routine suited all of us very well, and for a long time we made it work, and we were happy.

Casey started to slow down in 2008, and by the time of her 14th birthday in 2009, we’d already pushed past some scary veterinarian visits. I was terrified of losing her, but it’s one of those things you can feel coming. Still, on that rainy Saturday — March 13, 2010 — saying goodbye to the love of my life was the last thing I’d ever wanted to do. At that time, I would have offered up all of the other cats to save Casey. The house felt empty without her. I had no idea what to do one moment to the next without her instruction. I felt resentment toward the other cats. The only reason they were with me is because I’d adopted Casey and made myself look like a cat person. She was the chosen one, the Precious. The others were all sweet and cute and nice, but I couldn’t imagine loving any of them to the depth that I loved Casey.

And I was right.

And I was wrong.

When I moved house in 2016, there were only three left to bring with me: Buddy, Nissa and Blackbeard. Nissa was beautiful, but a scaredy-cat and she got rattled easily. Buddy was independent and had a happy go lucky spirit — I rarely worried about him. Blackbeard had long ago claimed the small portion of my cold, dead heart that Casey hadn’t taken with her. So, as Fate would have it, Blackbeard was the next to leave me, in April 2019. It wasn’t fair. Blackbeard was a true companion cat like Casey had been, but less demanding. And I’d already been on a 6-month death watch for Buddy, who’d been diagnosed with cancer the previous autumn, so it was he that I was prepared to lose — not my sweet, resilient Blackbeard. It was a full year later that Buddy finally succumbed, this past April. Nissa had taken ill, too, and I asked Buddy not to take her with him. I also asked Nissa to rally so we could be “the girls”. Both of them granted my requests. And then, last month, Nissa went to join her brothers. Because of the separate-spaces dynamic that Casey had demanded in the house, every time I’ve lost a cat, I’ve always imagined that the “outdoorsies” group is together in Heaven, but apart from Casey. She is up there, too, of course, but I always imagine her keeping them at a distance from her, making sure they know that when I eventually get up there, it’s going to be her first, and then the rest of them. That has always made sense to me, given how we had all combined here on Earth.

I was a non-cat cat person for 17 years. There was no vet visit, prescription, procedure, or private cremation that went undone. I always found the money and I always provided dedicated care. There was nothing I wouldn’t have done to make sure all of those furry little lives were happy and safe. And I was devastated each time I lost one, when all possible options were exhausted.

I hate how quiet the house is now. But I can’t yet fathom bringing in another animal — my “pack” was unique and special and I want to honor them by not replacing them so fast.

A couple of weeks ago, before bedtime I fell into sobs, screaming, “Where are all my babies? Where are all my little friends?”

I woke up around 3:00 am, still crying.

It was then that a glowing little angel-cat, Casey, came and stood on my chest as I lie in bed. She looked young and strong. In a horseshoe around my feet, I saw a lot of other glowing cats. Casey said, “I have them.” I was very confused, trying to take it all in. She said, “I have ALL of them.” I wasn’t sure what to think. “My Casey? She has all of my other babies?” So she explained, “Remember how you used to call me Sergeant? That’s why I went first.” And then she and all the other glowing cats were gone again.

I had never thought of it that way before — that Casey would have seen it as her duty to go first to make way for the others. But, it’s just like her to have taken charge of the situation. God, I loved that cat.

Happy birthday, precious Casey.