Last Friday morning I was supposed to take Kayla and Allie on their last ride to the Humane Society. Having had some time to heal following their spaying, it was time to take them back so they could travel to Northern Virginia for an adoption event. The day before I’d suffered more than a few weepy moments as I looked forward to saying goodbye to these little characters I’ve nurtured and cared for these past several weeks. So deep was my sorrow that I experienced a heart wrenching sobbing jag like I haven’t had in years. It must have been what I needed because by the time I was ready to put them in the car the following morning at 7:30, I was as prepared as I was going to be. I took a deep breath and backed out of the driveway.
The drive to the Humane Society is truly awesome, not in a “hey dude” sort of way, but in the traditional, spiritual way. Driving west on US Route 33 with the peaks of the Blue Ridge Mountains on the horizon as far north and south as the eye can see, always makes me feel as though I’m driving toward heaven. Maybe it’s because it’s the route we take to church on Sunday but nevertheless, it is a good reminder than I am never alone.
There were no other cars in the gravel lot when we arrived at the shelter. I waited a few moments and then got out of the car to peek in the windows but saw no sign of Penny, the caretaker. I thought she came in each morning at 7:30 to feed the cats but given the lack of activity, I guessed I was mistaken. I saw on the door that they opened at 10:00 that morning so decided to come back a few hours later rather than sit in the cold any longer. So, off we went, back to the house to set Kayla and Allie loose for a few more hours in the only home they’ve known. They leaped from their crate, happy to be out of the car and scampered off to find Izzie and Purrl, batting at toys and jumping up and down the furniture on their way.
Too soon it was time to gather them up again. A little before ten I put my charges back in their crate and we were off. This trip was a little easier, because I’d already survived it once. As I carried them through the door, I was met by the little girl who cried so hard when I took them home the first home. She was Penny’s granddaughter, the original Kayla, who had named the kittens after herself and her sister. I asked her, “Is your name Kayla?” Shyly she answered yes. “Guess who I have in this crate?” I asked and then pausing continued, “Kayla and Allie!”
Her eyes opened wide as she carefully approached the crate to peek in. “Can I hold them?” she asked. After asking permission from her Grandma Penny, I opened the door and both Kaylas were reunited. Both were amazed at how large the kittens had grown from the blue-eyed babies into the sleek mini cats they are today. When I first picked them up little girl Kayla was able to hold both kittens in her lap at one time. Now she was barely able to hold kitten Kayla’s feet off the ground when draped in her arms.
Once on the floor, Kayla and Allie were ready to go on an adventure and explore the shelter. They never even looked back to see if I was there. I was reassured that the transition to a new home wouldn’t be so bad. I’d done my job well taking two tiny kittens into our home allowing them to grow into well socialized, loving kitties, open to making new friends. They were ready to leave, whether I was ready to leave them or not.
Then, just moments before I turned and left, I had Penny look at their tummies to make sure they were healed well enough. Nope, “They won’t pass.” she said, “We’ll have to keep here another week unless you want to take them home again.”
She didn’t have to ask me twice. I scooped my little ones back into their crate and took them home. I’d been given one more week with my babies and wasn’t going to pass it up!
This coming Friday I will load them back up and drive them back towards the mountains to their new lives. It will be a bittersweet moment to see my little ones go but it is necessary, just like letting my children leave home. It is their time to go and mine to let them.
The tough part about loving authentically and wholly is that it requires you to open up your heart and be willing to lay it on the chopping block. When you’re a first time parent, pet owner, teacher, etc., you don’t always realize that one day you are going to have to let go. You’re going to have to watch them leave – with part of your heart in their hands. You invest your all and then find yourself standing at the door one day waving goodbye. Even in love, you take the risk of watching someone walk away with a piece of your heart.
But here’s what your post made me thing about. Being older and having experienced the pulled heart strings of “letting go”, you no longer go into these things with the same innocence. You know what you’re in for. You know the outcome and the risk. And yet, you open your heart anyway because that’s what it takes to be real. To fully give. To fully receive. To fully experience love and living. And there is a bittersweet honor in this – one of character, courage, strength, compassion, and “namaste”.
You are so very correct! I didn’t enter this blindly. Part of the love is the letting go.