From Felines to Foxes

Sylvia always seemed to have luck on her side. With auburn elbow length hair and eyes that never managed to stay one color, her innate luck fostered an unshakable confidence. Except when it came to romance—a subject for another story. Unbeknownst to her (as our psyche tends to forget that we are a soul in a body), Sylvia incarnated into this life to catalyze social change. It was an influence that came with an entourage of spiritual protection and some other added advantages . . . like luck. Were you assuming that luck is something that happens at random? I’ll let you in on a secret—luck is contracted before birth. When the contracts are signed legally (and not sold on the black market), they are signed in Lucknow, India—Luck’s Headquarters, and are allocated out based on merit and requirement. Divine Law grants a fixed amount of luck to the human population each year and the vetting process is thorough.

Sylvia, had world stage level luck because the role she was destined to fulfill was a large one. Sylvia’s soul was a kingpin for love. "Making Compassion Cool Again" was her aura’s lingering energy, and people naturally became kinder when they spent time in her presence. Sylvia had no idea that her life was worthy of statues erected in city squares, nor could she have as none of those statue-worthy events had happened yet. At the time of this story, Sylvia’s mission was just beginning; she was twenty-nine, and the fuel for her future business, Take-a-Paws, was just starting to spill out past the energy one requires for a healthy personal reserve. In one year from now Take-a-Paws would be birthed from a childhood impulse that sought to renew the bond between humans and the animal kingdom.

In addition to possessing world stage level luck, Sylvia was also born with a gift—she could speak to animals (all animals). As miraculous as the gift was, it was a piece of her personality that she usually kept hidden. No need to become the token weirdo, were her thoughts on the matter, and the reason that only a handful of her human companions knew of her gift. On the other hand, to the animals of her childhood small town, she was a legend. They called her Spirit Dancer.

Sylvia's impressive resume began at age four when shockingly, she located her neighbours missing puppy in the gravel pit down the road from home. One poignant conversation with a protective Westie named Rocky, and one crayon drawing later, and Sylvia led the puppy's parents to find him trapped at the bottom of a gravel bowl, unable to climb the loose resting walls of the pit. It was a typical dog chased cat story gone totally wrong.

At age six, after a series of hits to three hen coops in one month, Sylvia managed to convince the local Mrs. Fox to curb her growing fondness for chicken dinner.

“Wild mixes with wild, and domestic with domestic,” was her opening statement.

Sylvia was considered bright for her age—an intelligence that was nurtured from birth by her cat Kira. I’ll let you in on another secret, our feline friends are spiritual masters. Known for their wit, wisdom, and witchcraft (light and dark), cats are a highly evolved species, here to guide and to witness. If more humans took the cues from the cats in their lives, we would be living in a completely different world.

Through Kira’s tutelage, when it came to matters of conflict, Syliva learned to keep things professional. In a moment of precision, she would then go in with a gift. In her conversation with Mrs. Fox this meant kindly pointing to the long term effects that chicken meat had on a fox’s agility and IQ.

“Studies have shown,” said Sylvia with an air of concern, “that many second generation foxes on a family diet of laying hens, don’t make it past twelve months.”

Mrs. Fox was a vixen who would do anything for her pups, and squirrel meat (although it required more effort to catch), suddenly became more appetizing.

Most cats are psychic, and Kira was no exception. Psychic and soul-centered, meaning that unlike the typical blackmail or money infused manipulation tactics of our history’s past, Kira taught Syliva to find her opponent's weakness, and then offer that weakness more love.

“Improvements can always be made,” Kira would emanate psychically with a smile, “and if we search for those improvements through the heart and through an elevated mind, there is always a win-win opportunity to be discovered.”

By the age of twelve, Sylvia knew every animal in town, domestic and wild. The wild ones were less keen on small talk and would only come to her with issues unresolvable amongst themselves. The local frog population sought out Sylvia’s expertise when their community was experiencing an increased mortality rate.

“We just don’t, ribbit, understand it,” Bill the bull frog croaked. “All the frogs who are dying, ribbit, are just so random; from no one demographic or geographical area. It’s our uncles and aunties, the stress filled and the stress-free. With a death rate, ribbit, that’s continuing to rise, we’re, ribbit, getting quite hoppy about it.”

Turns out that the deaths were less determined by random selection and more by those who kept a membership at the local Dip and Dive. That summer came to be known as The Chlorine Catastrophe of 2003: a devastating incident involving one aesthetically driven city slicker and the pond as his new summer cottage.

Another notable win on Sylvia’s resume (which was not so much a resume per se, but a series of little black books alphabetically and chronologically coded by year), was her role as co-lead in the rally to protect seven acres of forest on the verge of becoming a warehouse for a new brand of energy drink. A curated showcase of the resident endangered species at the local town hall was a foolproof way to halt the industry giants’ plan to monopolize on a small town. Coordinating appearances with the species directly made it a guaranteed home run.

By age fourteen, Sylvia had filled seventeen little black notebooks (in her hay-days, filling four per year). She always found a solution, and when she did she wrote it down in her little black book.

“One on the paper, is one less in the mind,” Kira would always say, “Not only is documentation good for total recall, it’s instant teaching material.”

Kira’s logic may have been right (r i g h t), but this rule was transparently reinforced by the fact the Kira couldn’t write (w r i t e). In the day and age of tapping little black squares on a keyboard, it was no secret that Kira longed to soulfully express through the cursive free hand. Born with paws, she instead lived her desire vicariously through Sylvia’s nimble fingers.

Sylvia and Kira were the model six legged team, and Kira passed on her wisdom organically over time in a way that was fitting to the life of a master. For years they lived in bliss, and once all of her wisdom was transferred, Kira then passed away—peacefully in her old age, three weeks after Sylvia’s eighteenth birthday.

* * *

In any one lifetime, it’s inevitable that we’ll fall off the metaphorical horse once or twice. You might be surprised to know that getting back on that horse is also inevitable. For a soul desiring growth, there is no other way, while the time we take to get back on . . . is completely up to us! For Syliva, the time that she took was now closing in on ten years. Heartbroken, Syliva gave up carrying her little black notebook the day that Kira died, and although she never stopped conversing with the animals completely, she no longer considered herself of service. Sylvia’s modest social life included the odd house pet, and she would still lend an ear in moments when they shamelessly wined for a chat.

Dog’s were easy. They asked for simple things; a change to their diet or for their sleeping quarters to be moved into the sun. Goldfish were her favourite; one loop around the fishbowl and they seemed to forget the subject of their conversation, or that they’d even spoken at all. Cats were the most troublesome of the lot; they were the metaphorical horseback riding teachers who went out of their way to remind Sylvia of the brilliant rider that she was.

At age eighteen (four months after Kira’s death), Syliva moved away from her small town. Three cities, three jobs, and eleven apartments later (nowhere ever felt quite like home), she now lived on the second floor of a low-rise building in the heart of Vancouver, Canada. A tackless choice on her part. Second story walk-ups are hot spots for strays, and Sylvia’s balcony quickly became the local scratching post. Cats! Their visits increased with each full moon.

A ripped ear or a zed-shaped tail, the flea infested sprawl of a patchy coat, a tuna fish seeking meow; these became the new backdrop to the simplicities of Sylvia’s daily rituals. The worst were the glares from the serpent-like eyes of those who had been to the darkest of dark places. The alley cats from the gates of Hell (masters of dark and the light . . . remember?).

“Why is it, that the likes of you, a one in a million,” they would hiss, “is still hopping from home to home like a hot potato? Resisting at all costs to be who you are. What slice to the heart did you receive my sweet? Come sooth your sorrows with us.”

Sylvia may have been in denial, but she never gave in to the darkness of their demands.

Today however, was a different day. Today there were no lightning bolt tails, or the arch of a spine looking to dine. Today, there was poise, and the moonlike shimmer of a rhinestone collar. Today there was Luna. Her ears quivered with feline morse code and Sylvia knew the truth right away.

“You’re french!” she exclaimed from behind the glass of her patio door. “But what are you doing on the West Coast?”

For the next week Luna arrived at sunset each evening, and just like any french woman would, she never played her full hand. Luna’s presence was a mystery, and on her third visit Sylvia chose to let down the walls around her heavy heart. She let Luna inside (her apartment that is).

Luna stalked the space scouting for mice before allowing herself to sprawl out on the floor in the waning light of the sunset. Kira had lived her mastery through the wisdom of order, while Luna was a teacher of being. She never said more than a Merci. C’est gentil, choosing instead to communicate through the sophisticated melodies of her purr. Luna placed Sylvia into a dreamlike healing embrace every evening for a week. As the sun touched the mountains on the eighth day, she was nowhere to be found. Saddened by her loss, Sylvia was wise enough to know that Luna had completed her mission.

One week later, an envelope arrived in the post. Inside was a new little black book. Inside the book, an envelope. Inside the envelope, a cheque for $20,000, and a note.

“Most humans are good,” the note said, “and given the right opportunities, most of them will choose the path of light. It helps when they are shown what is possible, and your possible my dear, is meant to be shared. Your destiny is written in the stars. With love, Mr. T (your first celebrity endorsement). Oh . . . and one other thing. Luna says that you need a new cat.”