Homer had sensed that I was standing up and turned his head in my direction. He’d been especially attuned to my every movement these past few weeks, which I knew was because I’d been so hypervigilant of him that I’d made him self-conscious. Now, as I distracted Homer just long enough for Clayton to successfully pry the scrap of ribbon away from him, I realized that Laurence was right. I had no idea what, against all the odds, had been keeping Homer so buoyant for so long. But I did know that—as with any legendary fighter or athlete—self-doubt was the one thing that would bring him crashing down.
Christmas morning was hard for me. Logically, it shouldn’t have been. I’d made a wish over the candles at Hanukkah, and I’d gotten exactly what I’d wished for: Homer was still with me. Better yet, there was nothing (aside from a few conclusive medical tests and the consensus of his doctors) to indicate that he was going anywhere anytime soon.
Nevertheless, it was hardly an exaggeration to say that I’d barely left the house for more than half an hour at a time since Homer’s fateful hospital visit three weeks earlier. A dinner with out-of-town friends was all I’d managed, and those two hours away from my home and my Homer-Bear had been agonizing.
Laurence and I had planned to spend Christmas Day with family and friends in New Jersey—an annual tradition that I always looked forward to. But we’d be away for eight or nine hours, at least. Maybe even longer. And suddenly, standing in front of the closet with my head tangled in a sweater as I got dressed that morning, I didn’t think I could go through with it. What if something happened while I was gone? What if there was another fainting episode, or some equally dire emergency?
What if Homer left me for good, and I wasn’t even there to say goodbye?
Tears had risen many times since I’d first spoken with Homer’s doctor three weeks back; a few had even fallen. Still, I hadn’t actually cried. I didn’t cry very often, and I didn’t intend to start now—not when I was supposed to be out the door and on my way to a festive holiday gathering that I was already running late for.
For once, however, I was unable to keep my tears at bay. Collapsing onto the bed, I curled up on my side, buried my face in a pillow, and sobbed.
Homer was on the bed, too—keeping me company while I got dressed, as he always did. You could probably count on one hand the number of times Homer had heard me cry over the course of our years together. But when it did happen, it was something that always bothered him. Tentatively, as if he feared that a faster approach might cause alarm, he crept across the bed toward me.
The first time I’d met Homer, fifteen years earlier—in the office of the idealistic young vet who’d saved his life, on a sunny Miami afternoon when Homer was only a two-week-old kitten passed over time and again by potential adopters—the very first thing he’d done was to climb up the front of my sweater until he’d reached the crook of my neck. Once there, he’d nestled himself in and proceeded to purr his little heart out against my ear.
It was a gesture he’d go on to repeat many times in the months that followed, but hadn’t done in the fourteen-plus years since he’d reached his adult size. Small as Homer was when he was fully grown, he was still too big to fit comfortably in the gap between my shoulder and my jaw.
Now, however, climbing carefully across my curled-up form, that was exactly what he did. It was an awkward fit, and I raised one hand to help steady him. The warmth of Homer’s body in the space just above my heart felt every bit as good as it had back then. The thrum of his purr against my ear was as strong and joyful as it had ever been in all the years since.
“I love you, Homer-Bear,” I murmured into the black softness of his fur.
We’d made promises to each other, Homer and I, back on that first day, in that very first moment, when we’d decided without words that we would belong to each other from then on. And I knew—now, here, in this moment—that he was making a promise to me again.
With infinite gentleness, Homer brought his face to mine and began licking the tears, one by one, from my cheeks.
Believe, I imagined him saying.
The doctors had told us that Homer had two weeks left, at most. But the flame that supposedly had only enough oil to last for fourteen days would go on to burn—bright and true—for another nine months.
And Homer and I were together for all of it, right up until the very last moment. But, long before that moment came, I learned again what I’d always known: that nobody could tell Homer what his potential was. That nobody—not all the doctors in the world, and certainly not me—had any business telling Homer what he could or couldn’t do, or trying to prevent him from living every day of his life to the absolute fullest, in his own way, on his own terms.
That Homer lived as long as he did—when nothing in the lab results or medical textbooks could account for such a thing—was a miracle. Life in the face of hopelessness is always a miracle. Every day you get to spend with someone you love is a miracle in its own right.
And then there are the extra days—the ones you never thought you’d get but are somehow lucky enough to have anyway with your very best friend by your side. Those are the greatest miracles of all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Gwen Cooper is the New York Times bestselling author of the memoirs Homer’s Odyssey: A Fearless Feline Tale, or How I Learned About Love and Life with a Blind Wonder Cat; Homer: The Ninth Life of a Blind Wonder Cat; and My Life in a Cat House: True Tales of Love, Laughter, and Living with Five Felines; as well as the novel Love Saves the Day, narrated from a cat’s point of view. She also writes the Curl Up with a Cat Tale monthly shortstory series about the ongoing adventures of her “fur kids.” Her work has been published in nearly two dozen languages. She’s a frequent speaker at shelter fundraisers and donates 10 percent of her royalties from Homer’s Odyssey to organizations that serve abused, abandoned, and disabled pets. Gwen lives in New Jersey with her husband, Laurence. She also lives with her two perfect cats—Clayton “the Tripod” and his littermate, Fanny—who aren’t impressed with any of it.