The unexpected vacation
In remembrance of Mosi (2003-2024)
Mosi passed away a year ago today. I feel her absence with every bone in my body. I always will. Today, I’d like to celebrate her life and the joy and amazement she brought to mine.
Soon after Mosi died, I was scheduled to present at a conference. I wanted to cancel. I didn’t. But I felt sad and drained. I couldn’t wait to go home.
One evening, I found myself scanning the tables dotting the small terrace of the café serving the attendees dinner. I didn’t know anyone and thought it might be nice not to eat alone. I spotted two women and asked if I could join. One of them, a slight brunette in her early thirties with dark hair pulled into a low bun, introduced herself as Lizzie. We started talking about what brought each of us to the conference, and at some point I shared that had just lost my cat.
Lizzie said, “I am so sorry for your loss. What was her name?” I had been trying so hard to hold it together. It felt exhausting. I’ve learned to be careful about sharing animal loss grief. Not everyone understands, and even well-meaning people’s reaction (sometimes - nonchalance, sometimes - silence) can hurt.
But now I could exhale. I didn’t have to pretend.
I replied, “Mosi. It means ‘cat’ in the Navajo language. We named her that because we had adopted her from a shelter in Kanab, Utah, near the Navajo Nation. She ended up there after being rescued from Hurricane Katrina.”
Looking at me with quiet attention, Lizzie asked, “What is your favorite memory with Mosi?”
This simple question felt like a lifeline. Mosi and I shared seventeen years. There were so many memories.
In 2010, during Snowmageddon, our townhouse in Northern Virginia was submerged in snow. We had to homework for several days (unheard of back then) as the region gradually dug itself out. We had just moved from Boston a couple of years before, a little tired of the snow, only to find even more of it here. When I looked out onto the terrace, I saw a shimmering, chest-high blanket of snow.
We slid open the terrace door to let our three cats, Mosi, Maya, and Margo, experience it. Maya and Margo sniffed it briefly and cautiously moved away. Mosi, in what I call “full-on snow leopard mode,” started digging to investigate. I couldn’t believe my eyes. We had to stop her from making a tunnel to the other side of the deck. This was before smartphones, and I was laughing too hard to get a camera, so unfortunately we have no photos of our brave winter explorer. Always more curious than afraid.
Mosi had a habit of running to the front door whenever she heard a doorbell on TV. She would jump up from wherever, her couch, someone’s lap, and trot to the door, eyes bright with anticipation, upper lip folded in a cute little sneer we used to call her “Billy Idol.” I think this happened because she had no upper canines (they cracked in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina and had to be removed). She would look up at us as if to say: “How exciting! Let’s see who it is.”
Once, when we took the kitties to the vet for a check-up, we had somehow lost track of Mosi. She was nowhere to be found in the exam room where we waited. Margo stayed in the carrier, looking around nervously. Maya was silent and stoic, but her ears were boiling hot and she was shedding copious amounts of fur. Going to the vet was always quite an event for us all. And now we couldn’t account for Mosi.
We looked everywhere and started checking the clinic’s hallways, afraid she had run out. Finally, we decided to go through the exam room again, this time opening the trash can and the cabinets, and looking behind the radiators. We finally found her inside the cabinet under the sink, peacefully napping on a stack of towels. With her mitten paws, she must have opened the door and slid inside, unnoticed.
But if I had to choose one memory, it would be that of our unexpected vacation.
I had reservations about going on vacation with Mosi, but we needed a break and couldn’t leave her with anyone. Her packing list was longer than my own, with food and medical supplies, beds, blankets, the feeding station with elevated, ergonomically-angled bowls, the non-slip mat to prevent her paws from sliding as they were want to do in her senior years, a plug-in with ‘happy cat’ pheromones. Her usual litterbox and litter. Everything to make her comfortable and as “at home” as possible.1 I researched veterinary clinics nearby, which, luckily, we didn’t end up needing, and was comforted to discover that a daughter of the people who rented us the apartment and lived next door was a veterinary student.
I was used to Mosi being an old kitty. She was opinionated, loving, and, for her age (then, around 20) full of energy, despite diabetes and other ailments. But she also needed rest and loved napping on one of the couches or in various other beds and cozy nests I set up for her throughout the house. She had a set of steps to help her on the couch if she felt like using them. And, when she needed help up the stairs, she knew to “call an Uber.” She would meow when she was ready and I would go downstairs and carefully carry her up. She didn’t like to be left alone and I didn’t like to be away from her, so I stayed home as much as I could.
Our vacation accommodation was a small apartment, no stairs. The couch was low, and there was a pouffe for the feet, which Mosi used to hop on the couch. We had a lovely private garden with a small waterfall and a pond with tiny frogs and fish, surrounded by lush, green grass. There were trees and flowers, a vegetable patch and a smattering of fresh herbs. We had a wooden table with two chairs, a place to build a fire, and several pathways for us (and Mosi) to explore. It was a dream come true.
Mosi didn’t love to sleep alone in the living room, so most nights, as soon as she would start fussing (low-grade concerned meowing, wandering around), I would get up and join her on the couch. We would talk, I would give her a fresh snack and try to convince her it wasn’t time to get up yet. I’d contort myself in impossible positions to make sure she had the best, most comfortable spot on the couch. Most nights were not restful, but I was so grateful to be able to be here at all, and with her, that I didn’t mind.
Most days, we went out for a few hours. I enjoyed the scenery but always worried about her. I couldn’t wait to get back, hold my little furry senior, and just relax with her in my arms. She was my miracle cat, and I treasured every second.
Mosi quickly discovered the garden. She adored it. She started every day by gluing her little nose to our glass door and asking to go out. She wanted to be out as much as possible, and we obliged. She was always supervised, as, despite her age, she could be remarkably quick, trotting over to the wall that dropped off steeply on one side of the garden or sneaking into one of the owners’ sheds to investigate. One time, she ran up a steep flight of stairs to the owners’ home. I couldn’t keep up with her and I do have a video to prove it.
I would bring out her soft bed. She was thin and arthritic. Lying down typically took several slow, careful moves. I wanted her to be comfortable as she napped outside. She would snuggle and fall asleep, breathing the fresh country air. She met the owners’ kitten, who was curious too and, a couple of times, came into our apartment to sample Mosi’s food.
Mosi especially loved the pond and the waterfall. She kept trying to go into the water, after the frogs and fish she spotted just below the surface. She would also climb onto the rocks surrounding the waterfall, then cross through the cold, gurgling water to the other side. I couldn’t believe my eyes! I do have one or two videos of these exploits, but most of the time, I had to put my phone away and hover over her to make sure she wouldn’t fall in.
The garden was full of tiny white butterflies. They fluttered around from flower to flower, and, of course, attracted the attention of our furry senior. She ran after them, swatting in their direction and sometimes pouncing on them, as cats often do, holding out both front paws and making that funny hop forward. Convinced she had caught them, she would carefully lift one paw at a time and peer at its underside and the ground below, clearly expecting to see her prey.
Even at twenty and with diabetes, painful arthritis, and other ailments, Mosi was still inquisitive, brave, strong, and curious. Always more curious than afraid. Larger than life. Exploring the world, enjoying the sun on her little furry face, the cold water, and the soft, fragrant grass under her paws, and trying to get those little white butterflies.
This vacation ended up being Mosi’s last. I’m grateful that we braved this adventure together, making many unexpected and delightful memories.
I’m also grateful for Lizzie’s simple question that evening. It shifted my sadness a little and helped me remember Mosi’s life and the way she filled mine with love and wonder. The way we understood each other without words (though sometimes a meow or two, or her trademark backward glance helped). The unbounded joy I felt each time she settled on my chest and wrapped her oversized mitten paws around my neck.
Death takes so much, but it can’t take our memories or our love.
Do you have a favorite memory with your furry companion? Please share in the comments.
My cat Mac (who came with my husband, though he was never his cat) left us last fall at 19. He was a best cat, and I miss him.
I wrote you a long comment but it disappeared, sigh. Let me see if I can remember what I said… I am just so moved by what you wrote. It can be hard for others to understand the bond we have with animals, especially, in your case and mine, with kitties. They all deserve the kind of life Mosi got with you. My eldest is Wabi, age 18, and she curls up under my chin every night. She is deaf but remarkably healthy—no longer grooms herself though. The idea of leaving her for even a weekend is gut wrenching. I don’t know how I will cope when she is gone—especially since I am already quite lonely in my life here, with very few people who understand how I approach life. But anyway, thank you for writing this beautiful remembrance of Mosi.