Sometimes life serves up a poignant, full-circle moment. This happened recently when I went to visit my son Paul who had just adopted a kitten. “She’s adorable,” I gushed, petting the sweet little tan, black, and white calico. Looking at her, I couldn’t help thinking back to a kitten Randy and I had when we were newlyweds.
We were 24 years old when we adopted our first pet: an adorable gray-brown tabby. At that time, we were living on the bottom floor of a two-family apartment house in Fairfield, CT, a college town about an hour from New York City.
“What should we call her?” I asked that first evening, as our newest family member dozed on my lap. I held my breath, not sure what Randy would come up with.
“Callie,” he finally said. I smiled. “I like it.”
Weeks went by, and we found ourselves entranced by this little creature, building our nights and weekends around her. Every day after my office job, I’d nuzzle Callie while she lay in my arms like a baby, entranced by her gold almond-shaped eyes and white whiskers.
Sometimes, I’d get back from work or the store to find Callie snuggled on Randy’s lap or sleeping on his shoulder while he watched television. Over the months, her toy collection grew, including plush mice and little plastic balls with bells inside.
At night, Callie slept between Randy and me while the Connecticut winter winds howled and tree branches creaked against the window. I loved feeling her soft, sweet body next to mine. To me, we were a family, a cozy unit of three.
Winter finally lost its grip, and March came. On sunny weekends, if Randy and I hung out in the backyard, Callie meowed from the kitchen window to come out too. Growing up, all my family cats had gone outside and roamed freely.
“Should we let her come with us?” I asked. I felt bad that Callie never got to feel the warm sun and soft breezes, so we began allowing her to join us.
“We have to be careful,” Randy warned, as we brought her out. I couldn’t disagree. We lived on a corner with two intersecting streets and four-way stop signs. Cars zoomed by. Teenagers barely stopped at the signs, gunning the gas and roaring off.
April came, and daffodils started blooming. More and more, we let Callie come outside. One day, Randy and I decided to try a new restaurant in downtown Fairfield within walking distance. As we started to leave, Callie tried to follow. We picked her up and put her back in the house, making a note to always keep her inside when we left. I saw how vulnerable she was and how quickly things could happen if we weren’t vigilant.
Finally, summer arrived. On the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, I’d bought Callie yet another new toy, this one a blue corduroy catnip mouse. I couldn’t wait to see her playing with it. The weather was warm and beautiful, predicted to be perfect all weekend. I arrived home, happy but late, having been stuck in holiday traffic.
Coming to the back door, I was surprised when Randy opened it right away, as if he’d been waiting for me. His face looked strained and his eyes red-rimmed. My stomach dropped. Wrapping his arms around me, he pulled me close against his chest. I felt his heart pounding under his shirt. I pulled back, looking into his face. “Callie—” he began.
It wasn’t till later that I got the full story. He and the kitty had been out in the yard, playing. Before he could stop her, she had darted into the road, in front of a speeding car. The driver never stopped. Randy raced her to the vet, but it was too late.
That night, dazed and grieving, I dreamt that when I jiggled my car keys, Callie came to see me. Only, instead of coming through the door, she entered through the wall, like vapor. I tried picking her up, but she kept sliding through my hands. We spent a little time together, and even though we couldn’t touch, I sensed she was saying goodbye. After a bit, she walked through the wall and was gone.
And after all these decades, I still thought of Callie. Over the years, Randy and I adopted many more animals, but had always told our sons about our first pet.
That day with Paul and his new kitten, I asked, “What’s her name?” He smiled. “Callie.”
I gasped. “Is that the name you gave her?” “No,” he said, “that’s the name she came with.” I shook my head in disbelief.
Exactly 45 years had passed since our Callie died. In that time, Randy and I had gone from newlyweds to young parents to having teenagers and then adult sons. Life had come full circle.
That afternoon, I said goodbye to Paul and Callie, happy to see this Callie was in good hands.
And whether the soul of “my” Callie had come back in another form, or this was just a sweet coincidence, I’d never know. Whatever the case, in my mind, my darling Callie had returned.
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