Now's a good time

When I need a dose of sanity, do you know where I go? I go to Sirius's room.

Sirius is my gratitude role model. I may enter his room feeling frayed from the pull of everyday challenges, but by the time I leave, my breathing has evened out, my thoughts have stilled, my longing for what I don't have has evaporated. And to think I've been paying a therapist for years!

How does this transformation happen? Usually it starts when I spot his ragged left ear. How that torn flesh, ripped like a piece of paper, must have hurt for weeks afterwards. Next I rub his scarred nose, injured in the same fight perhaps, but more likely in another. For surely Sirius was forced into many unwelcome battles during his time on the streets. Unneutered males rarely tolerate the presence of other cats in their territory, and Sirius, the former housecat, would have discovered his error too late.

In one of these brawls, Sirius was bitten by an FIV cat. Somewhere, then, beneath his soft black and white fur, lies the scar that changed his future.

But Sirius does not know this. What he knows is that he spends his days in a warm, comfortable room. He knows that he never wants anymore for healthy food or clean water. He knows that the "mice" he catches now are for sport only, not for dinner. And he knows that many times a day a loving stranger visits. Sometimes she drags toys underneath his quilted blanket or sends colorful foil balls scuttling across the room. Other times she lies on the couch and invites the giant tuxedo boy to stretch himself out, full-body, on her chest. And when he does, she strokes his face and whiskers, knowing that his eyes will close with pleasure and his purrs will make his body, and hers, vibrate.

Sirius has forgotten his past suffering; any future suffering remains unknown. He is grateful now. Not an hour ago. Not tomorrow. Now.

And from him, I take away the lesson.

Hello, Goodbye

"Hello," I say as I greet Sirius, the latest Calliope cat. But as I lean down to stroke his upturned face, another word flashes through my mind. "Goodbye."

Like Starlight, Sirius is FIV positive. But his story is a happier one. He was rescued before life on the streets drained too much of his strength; his health is good. As proof, I need only catch the sight of his round belly swinging ever so slightly as he runs over to greet me. He shows every sign of living up to his name as the brightest star in the night sky. "I have many years ahead," his shining eyes communicate. "Now feed me!"

As Sirius and I cuddle on the couch, again I think of Starlight. But my thoughts are no longer sad ones. They do not whisper to me about the past; they navigate around what could have been. They speak instead about the future: a future working with other passionate rescuers, opening up my heart to animals that need me, and making peace with the knowledge that in every hello lives a goodbye.

I will someday say goodbye to Sirius too. Mixed with my excitement over his finding his forever home will be the same pocket of sadness that accompanies all goodbyes. I'll shuffle around his empty room feeling slightly lost and disoriented. I'll want to call his new family an hour after he's left to ask how he's adjusting. I'll remember other beloved people or animals I've said goodbye to, perhaps railing against the unfairness of not being able to control when or how those goodbyes unfolded. And I'll have an hour or two when I decide that hellos are not worth the goodbyes. Opening up my heart knowing that loss will follow is for fools, I'll convince myself.

Soon after that, another animal will need me. The cycle will repeat. I will become a fool filled with joy and purpose who knows that the antidote for goodbye sickness is a new hello.