Content warning for discussion of animal death.
A few days after I was born, a white kitten with bright blue eyes showed up at my grandmother’s doorstep. The kitten couldn’t have been more than a few days old.
My grandmother suspected that she was a kitten of a stray tortoiseshell cat that she had taken in and named Pokémon, because my older sisters were obsessed with Pokémon at the time.
My family named this kitten Starlight, and brought home her and I. My mother always told me that we shared the same birthday.
As she got older, her deep black, gray and brown fur markings grew in. Her eyes were always big, round, blue and vast, like the night sky.
I would park myself in front of her on my knees while she sat curled up on some piece of furniture, usually the corner of a bed. There we would stare into the other’s eyes for what felt like hours, unblinking, unmoving, inches away from each other’s faces.
I would stay there until I felt sleepy and closed my eyes. Sometimes, I would rest my forehead against hers and we would stay like that for a while.
When I opened my eyes, her eyes would be shut tight. Then she would open her eyes at nearly the same rate, staring back at me. I still wonder how she did that.
When Starlight’s death approached, my family and I felt it coming. She grew more cuddly at the end of her life. As she slowed down, I sped up.
She lost weight, and I wonder if this made her feel cold. My youthful fast-paced lifestyle had no patience for spending what felt like hours laying in bed with a kitty on my lap.
I kick myself for not just spending more time with her.
The day came where she collapsed, heaving strange, shallow breaths. The vet told us that her lungs were filled with fluid, not unusual for a cat her age. Medical intervention would be complicated with a low chance of success.
We reached a unanimous agreement and took her to the back room at the vet. In her final moments, my family and I gathered around her while she laid on a small table.
I sat in front of her, inches away from her face, staring into her eyes. The vet told us to say our goodbyes. I didn’t speak aloud–it didn’t feel right. I slow-blinked at her instead.
This coming February marks ten years since Starlight’s passing.
After tracking and observing my dreams for some time now, I’ve realized that there are different types of dreams with their own distinct feelings.
Dreams that carry some external contact or interference are the ones that I remember for months and years later after the fact, without even writing them down. Their feeling and impact is distinct, profound and lasting enough to remember (although it is a good idea to write them down anyway).
Earlier this year, I had a dream where I wandered around my house. It was very mundane and nothing memorable happened, until I reached the basement. This part of the dream has stuck with me and is the only part of the dream that I clearly remember.
Once I was in the back corner of the basement where we used to keep Starlight’s food, water, and litter box, I saw a window there with the curtains open. A stream of gentle blue light filtered in from the outside.
I could see dust particles floating in the air. It felt like time froze. Looking out the window, there was no real “outside” area that I could see–no trees, birds, houses, nothing. Just light.
The stream of light landed on a round, fluffy cat bed sitting atop two stacked cardboard boxes. In this bed Starlight laid curled up, looking at me.
I recognized her right away, although she didn’t look exactly like she did while living. She had more white fur on her.
She seemed smaller and thinner, more like how she looked as a kitten. However, she didn’t strike me as a kitten at all–in fact, she struck me as being older than I’d ever seen her before.
Her eyes were the most unusual trait of all, big and blue and endless as ever, but with one major difference: two large white X’s laid across them.
I felt a strange blend of relief, sadness and grief upon seeing her. When I approached her, she acknowledged me the same way she always did. Her presence and her fur felt the same.
She let me hold my forehead to hers again. We held still like that for a while, but not long enough. I woke up tearful.
In my personal spiritual practice, I started visiting a feline goddess. I can’t say much about it yet, but I will say that a part of my initial visit was to stare into her eyes and see the stars in them.
I still remember the relief, the sadness, and the tears in my eyes.
