Every now and then, life lets you know that not all we experience is corporeal. This miraculous event compelled me to note every step of it.

Featured photo by Lynda Yost, his other mother next door.

Zodiac, Amy’s and my plump, flame-tipped Siamese cat, left us a message today. Odd, because it was written, and even more odd because he died three days ago.

Before I relate this supernatural event, I’d like you to know that Amy and I consider it an honor to comfort the dying; not just being there for them but treating the disease or injury if we can, or at least alleviating symptoms to the best of our ability. 

Unlike with most of our pets (and relatives and friends), we hadn’t been able to hospice Zody. His sudden death prevented us from saying goodbye and adjusting over time to an impending new reality marked by his absence.

Here’s what happened:

Except for waking a little later, this morning started out like most, unlike the previous two days where Amy and I were so sad and weepy that we could barely think of anything else except the shock and pain of losing Zo. But today, I felt like the trauma of his passing was beginning to abate. 

While reading the New York Times on my iPhone, I observed my morning ritual of drinking a cup coffee, eating a slice of toast, and choking down a dozen medications and vitamins.

After 30 or 40 minutes, I rose from the table. Thinking about what I needed to get done, I checked the time: 9:22 am. 

Just as I normally would, I slid my phone into my sweater pocket, kissed Amy on the head, and took my coffee cup, pill organizer, and water bottle into the kitchen before walking toward the bathroom adjoining my office. 

Our cats, Sage and Zody, when he was still with us, had been retiring after their breakfast to my office for the last couple of months to take a nap in the warming rays of the eastern sun. Sage slept on top of a bookcase to the right of my office chair, and Zo slept on my desk just to the left of my keyboard and monitor. 

That was where his instantly fatal heart attack occurred while I, staring at the monitor and mousing with my right hand, idly scratched his nestled head with my left hand as he gently purred.

As I passed through my office today, Sage was snoozing in her spot as usual but Zo was sadly absent from his. I quietly said: “Love Sage” to her, and to the empty space on my desk, I whispered: “Love Zodiac. I miss you.” 

After turning on my computer, I went into the bathroom between my office and Amy’s. There, I turned on the heater, sat down, and pulled the phone out of my sweater pocket.

I noticed that the Notes app was open and that “Zo” was written on the open note.

Of course, it’s not unusual to find a random app open. When I saw what was written on it, I first assumed I had begun a notation regarding his death sometime in the previous two days. However, I was stunned to see that the note was time-stamped 9:23 am.

I looked at the current time on my phone: 9:24 am.

That note was created less than a minute prior at 9:23 am! Not yesterday or the day before, but today; this morning at the exact time I was telling Zo that I loved him.

I had not opened the app in the previous minute or so, at least not intentionally, and I most certainly had not typed “Zo” into the new note while the phone was in my sweater pocket.

I felt it had to be a message from Zodiac. 

Hoping he was near, I affectionately crooned to him in the spirit world as I had done so many times in life: “Zo, Po, Zody-Pody! You are my Z-Z-Z, Z-Z-Z Zodiac sign!”  

Zody’s death was so quick that he must have been just as shocked as Amy and I were at his instantaneous departure.

Maybe this message was how he made sure that we had a more satisfactory closure.

Goodbye, Zo, my sweet buddy. You are still loved and so missed by the network of affection you created.