Ready or Not: The Cat Distribution System Doesn't Care About Your Plans

Quite literally a softer story to soothe the soul

“You’re handsome,” I tell him, and he looks at me with a face that says, “no kidding.” He was up early, like always, and, like always, he waited for me to fix his breakfast. I don’t mind. It’s all part of the routine we’ve fallen into. He always joins me for coffee.

On this particular morning, I’m sitting down with my calendar. After an intentionally slow start to the new year, the days and weeks are suddenly filled with events, appointments, and responsibilities. It’s funny how quickly that can happen. Some dates are firm, other entries are tentative, digitally penciled-in placeholders, just in case. Either way, I want to make sure I’m prepared. Sorting through it all, I feel a familiar tinge of overwhelm starting to creep in. It always happens when I have a lot to manage. As soon as the feeling starts, though, I notice a special notation at the end of the month and hear the sound of a big sigh.

It’s him, already exhausted from the morning’s admin. He blinks at me, slowly, and I can tell he’s already slipped into a nap. We’ve only been up for a couple of hours.

Turning my attention back to the calendar and the special notation, I decide it’s worth it to disturb his slumber.

“It’s almost our anniversary,” I say.

The sound of my voice manages to barely open one sleepy eye before he slowly closes it again.

“I love you, Big Cat,” I tell him, and we both get back to our respective tasks.

A year ago, I landed on a social media post for an orange cat in need of a home. He was handsome, bright-eyed, looking surprised as anyone to find himself in a shelter. It had been nearly a year since my longtime feline consigliere, Brian Williams, had died. He was an orange gentleman too, the sweetest of animals who lived to a ripe old age or perhaps an age a bit riper than it should have been. I was busy then, changing my life, moving on, not quite noticing the once fuzzy orange force was a shadow of his former self. He held on as long as he could, I think. I hope now he didn’t hold it against me for not letting go sooner.

He was one of a kind, that one.

Brian Williams in 2022

To lose a beloved pet is to feel your heart fold over on itself. It gets smaller, tucked in a ball, crouched in pain. In my experience, you either know exactly what I’m talking about or have an opinion I’m not interested in hearing. Either way, it’s a testament to love and loss being in direct proportion to one another. As great, from my perspective, as the creatures are small.

When I landed on the social media post for the handsome, bright-eyed cat in need of a home a year ago, I didn’t know if I was ready to invite him in. No one, I don’t think, ever knows if they are ready for a thing like that. Loss has a way of opening a door you can’t close, a way of showing you things you can’t unsee. You can’t pretend not to know what you’re in for. And yet, love, the cause of all of it, is the thing you know deep down makes life bearable and gives you courage to risk it all again.

A year ago, I didn’t know if I was ready, but I knew the handsome, bright-eyed, aptly named orange cat, Fizz, needed me and, in that moment, that was enough.

He was sound asleep as I wrapped up my scheduling, stirring only when the laptop closed. He started to yawn, then stretch, and was making his way to my side of the couch before I could even get the computer out of the way.

“Hang on,” I pleaded, reaching for my coffee, but he was already in my lap, settled in, purring.

“I love you, Big Cat.”

This column originally appeared in the January 29, 2026 edition of the Perry Herald in Perry, NY. It is dedicated to the Wyoming County SPCA, helping animals like Fizz and people like me find each other.

Click here to learn more about adoption or support the Wyoming County SPCA with a donation.

A snap of Fizz from our first weekend.