For the past couple of weeks, I’ve noticed that once I’ve snuggled underneath the covers and turned off the lamp, I feel pressure on the end of my bed. It’s a not-unfamiliar feeling—like the cat has jumped onto the end of the bed to curl up for the night. The only problem is – there is no cat there. No animals are sleeping in my room at all. But I guess someone is still visiting and claiming the spot she used to have.
It’s not a scary feeling, perhaps a little disconcerting, but I’m able to put it to the side and slip into slumber soon enough.
Have any of your furkids come back to visit? Have you felt their presence or heard a familiar clip-clop across the kitchen floor?
Here are some stories from others who have shared a similar experience.
A friend of mine posted this a few weeks after her aging dog, Dixie, passed away: Well…last night was interesting! Hubby and I were lying in bed in the pitch dark, listening to the snowstorm blowing outside. I suddenly heard dog nails on the floor—just three steps, then the familiar thump and sigh of a big dog lying down. Then I heard them licking their paws…
I said to hubby, “There’s a dog in here! Did you accidentally leave the gate open?”
He assured me Prince was in his crate and Maggie was down in the shop. I sat up and looked over the edge of the bed…and of course, the rug was empty. So, I said, “Goodnight, Dixie…thanks for stopping by!”
Here’s another kitty story: One night, when I was sleeping in my basement room in Denver, I felt a thud, thud, thud of Maine Coon paws on my blanket that walked up my back and then a weight next to my neck.
My Mom called the next day. My special kitty, which I hadn’t been able to take with me when I moved, had passed away that night in Mississippi. I know she came by to say goodbye. Once in a while, I still feel those steps in the night and then wake up enough to realize I am not home but in a hotel with no cats—except the one I can’t see.
Here’s another sweet story: “My mom died on a very hot August 10th, 2000, late in the night at Evergreen Hospice in Totem Lake/Kirkland, WA. That afternoon before she passed, we had the door open to the big garden with the little brook and quaking aspen. It was very hot in that room. My sister, my Robideau cousin who was her nurse, and my mom’s sorority sister from the Delta Zeta sorority at the U of Washington, from back in the 40s, were there.
Mom had been in a coma for a few days, and all of a sudden, out of nowhere, she sat straight up and started talking to us as mentally clear and alert as if she had not suffered cancer for 10 years. Just like that!
She looked us all square in the eye and said, “Who brought this cat in? Now none of you try to humor me!” (said as an order), and we asked, “What cat?” and she said, “Can’t you see??? There is a cat sitting right on my chest, and it’s loving me!!!”
It was very hot in the room, and I waved my hand over the area where she said the cat was sitting. Sure enough, a tremendous cold spot just stood there, suspended in midair. There was no draft in that 80+ room. Then, my sister, her sorority sister, and my cousin all waved their hands over that one spot. It remained extremely cold.
And then, for some unknown reason, a thought just popped into my head, unbidden. I asked my mom, “By any chance, is the cat a black-and-white tuxedo?”
And she said, “Yes!”
And I said, “Mom, is this Pishi?”
And she cried out, “Yes, yes, it is!!! Oh, my Pishi!!! I love you so much!” with great emotion.
And then, she proceeded to love up and pet a kitty we could not see and speaking only fluent Farsi to Pishi until she slipped back into a deep coma that she remained in until 10:30 pm that night when she passed away.
You see, Pishi was her beloved kitty, and her name means “Kitty” in Farsi (Persian), which she had in Iran. Pishi moved from Tehran to Isfahan with my parents when they were re-assigned from the U.S. Embassy in Tehran to the US consulate in the party town of Isfahan. I have the cutest picture of Pishi, taken around 1950, on my fridge.”
The final story: “There was a time in the early and mid-90s when my wife and I fished the Keys at every possible opportunity. We kept a boat in Marathon, and we’d always rent the same house on the water just over Vaca Cut. On one particular occasion, we were there for about two weeks. Every time we’d come in with fish, this little grey and white short-haired tuxedo would show up to beg – and I’d toss him some dolphin cheeks. He became a regular at the cleaning table. After dinner, he’d stick around for margaritas on the dock, and then – despite the presence of Teddie, our Rott/Belgian Malinois mix – he’d cry to come in the house with us, but we’d never let him in.
Because we were worried he was going to get hit, we asked all the neighbors if they knew who owned the little guy, but no one knew, and nobody claimed him. Eventually, it became obvious he’d been abandoned or lost. When we’d leave to go somewhere in the truck, we’d return to find him sitting by the door, patiently waiting for our return—that was something he NEVER missed.
The last evening, we were there, we went to have dinner with friends who lived on Summerland Key. On the way down, the conversation turned to whether or not we should bring the little guy home with us. When we returned – still undecided about taking him home – he wasn’t at the door. We looked high and low for him, but he was nowhere to be found. We were convinced the worst had happened. Just as we were about to give up, my wife heard a tiny meow. It was coming from the roof. I got him down and brought him inside. It was obvious at that point that he’d adopted us. Because he got along so well with Teddie (who already had three of her own kitties back home), we brought him back with us to Orlando.
We named him Kay Cee for “keys kitty,” and he settled in. It was soon obvious that he had an unusual habit. Possibly because he’d been abandoned – or perhaps as a residual from waiting at the door for us in the keys – but whenever we returned from being out, we’d find him sitting on the kitchen table, looking out the window, watching and waiting for us. He would always greet us at the door. Interestingly, if we were gone for more than a couple of days, he’d sulk and avoid us. It was quite obvious that he was angry at being left behind.
Kay Cee lived a long life with us—well over 15 years—but eventually left in April 2007. On the way back from his last ride, we discussed how we’d saved him from what would have very likely been a short, hard life.
We hadn’t been home more than half an hour from the vet. I was standing at the kitchen sink thinking about him and all the pleasure he’d given us when I got the impression that I should turn around. There, sitting on the table in his usual spot, was Kay Cee. For several seconds, he sat and looked at me with the biggest cat grin I had ever seen—and then—POP! He was gone.
The instant impression was that he’d come back to say, “Thanks, and by the way, I’m doing just fine,” and “Look, I’m sitting here, waiting for you, just like I always have. “
I’ve never dreamed about him, and he’s never visited again, but that memory is as crystal clear today as it was 10-plus years ago in 2007. I have a pretty strong feeling Kay Cee will be one of those I’ll see when I hit that far-side bank.”
I have a pretty strong feeling he will, too!
Happy Friday!!!