Late-Night Zoomies

Growing up, I loved animals and wanted a pet desperately. But my parents, knowing me too well, limited the options to goldfish and hamsters—creatures that, if forgotten, wouldn’t stage a coup in the living room.

As an adult, though, I’ve allowed myself something bigger. Cats. (I briefly considered a dog once, but after a few honest conversations with myself about responsibility and the state of my laundry pile, I decided against it.)

My first cat, who has since passed away, was a sweet brown tabby. She would greet me at the door with a sleepy headbutt and even sit and roll over on command, which is, in the cat world, basically wizardry.

I adopted her when she was already considered elderly—11 years old, an age when most shelter visitors pass by the glass without pausing. She had waited in the shelter for a year after her former family introduced a dog into the house—something she clearly did not approve of. Though she had been through a lot, it was clear she still had a lot of love to give. So I adopted her, with the intent of making her golden years her best years.

She lived another ten years. Twenty-one in all. Even in old age, she remained defiantly young. Late at night, to my bleary-eyed dismay, she would tear through the apartment at full speed, singing the songs of her people. I made sure she had regular checkups, professional teeth cleanings, and more catnip than was medically advisable.

I hope she had a rich life. I like to think the years we shared—the vet visits, the catnip, the late-night zoomies—outweighed the shadows of her past. That maybe, even after everything, she remembered how to be a kitten again.

She taught me that it’s never too late to remember how to be young. That age is just a state of mind, not a number. She taught me how to never stop chasing the good things, even when the world tells us to slow down.

Love you, Fergie.