Serendipity -The Art of Landing on one's Feet
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When I first met Serendipity, she was about the size of a beanie baby, sound
asleep in the corner of the litter pan at some SPCA in South Texas. At that
time, I had a Colorado-bred tortishell who was not adapting well to life on
Galveston Island. I thought a companion might ease her pain – though it was
probably my own homesickness I was looking to cure. As I drove through the
unfamiliar plains on my way home from my hike through alligator country, I
spied the shelter sign. As chocolate calls to the stomach when one is on a diet,
that shelter called to me that warm Texas afternoon.
The first thing I noticed about Serendipity, other than her strange choice of
places for a kitten nap, was her beautiful coloring. She was also a tortishell –
but she had long fur with large patches of white. This combination was even
better than the genotype I was envisioning for my new family member.
I approached the counter and asked “What is wrong with that kitten in the
litter pan?” I was concerned, because she was only about half the size of her
(less gorgeous) littermates. A kind Southern voice from behind the counter was
quick to address my concern – “Oh there is nothing wrong with her – She just
needs a bath”. The shelter woman then whipped frail Serendipity out of her
sound sleep in the sand and into the back room. A couple minutes later, she
remerged with a dripping wet kitten, wrapped warmly in a towel.
At that moment in her life, Serendipity’s head was enormous in proportion to
her fragile body. Her ears where mammoth! Silently, I though to myself, “She
looks just like those cute, furry gremlins from that Spielberg movie.” Then the
woman with the compassionate southern drawl spoke words that struck my soul
– “She looks just like a gremlin after her bath, doesn’t she?” How did she know
I was thinking that?
So that was my sign from the Heavens that Serendipity was to come home with
me that warm Texas afternoon. I paid $50 dollars for her. That included a
future spay fee because at that moment, she was too feeble to undergo any
procedures. The woman also explained to me, after cupid’s arrow had struck my
heart, that Serendipity had completed two courses of antibiotics to put her
back on the road to health. I was less than reassured, knowing that Serendipity
was the antithesis of what any vet would tell you to look for when adopting a
kitten.
It was about an hour from that SPCA back to the Island. Serendipity slept in
her box, waking only very occasionally to softly mew in protest to her
cardboard captivity. The whole drive home, the voice in the back of my head
went on about how she would die before we got home and how silly it was to
spend $50 on this particular kitten. When I opened the box, however, those
two golden eyes looked up and me and, once again, melted my soul like a
chocolate bar on a hot Texas afternoon.
My heart sunk once again a couple days later, when I figured out she could not
eat solids. So, already too smitten to do differently, I invested in a supply of
kitten formula. I was reassured when she lapped it down like a hungry billy-
goat. This, by no means, cured her – though her veracious appetite was a
strength that would help pull her through.
Within days, she developed a hacking kennel cough and was infested with mobs
of Gulf Coast fleas. Her eyes were filled with green goop and her whiskers all
fell out. She was the most pathetic little feline to ever enter my life. Though
hopelessly smitten, I knew the odds of her making it to adulthood were skinnier
than Serendipity herself.
Against these odds, my frail kitty just kept lapping down that formula until she
started to grow stronger. One day, she started to play with toys, like a real
kitten. The next thing I knew, she had grown into the most strikingly beautiful
cat I had ever owned. She even outranks the purebred orange Persians my
family raised when I was young. In addition to her physical splendor, she had
also turned into a colorful mass of playful fur, complete with Duracell
batteries to keep her going all night!
When we returned to Colorado about a year later, I took her to the vet for a
check-up and the spay we never got done in Texas. It was then I learned that
she had been thriving despite being home to three types of Southern intestinal
parasite. After another major investment in antibiotics – she fully-
recuperated and has stayed fit-as-a-feline to this very day – she is now 6
years old.
Sometimes folks will ask me where Serendipity got her name. It did not come
from the woman with the kind Southern accent at the SPCA – because I had
picked Serendipity’s name before I ever laid eyes on my scrawny kitten that
day. The name came from my mom – but by a rather indirect route.
Years before, I was visiting mom when she was very close to her own death.
She was asleep much of the time. However, one day she awoke with a start and
hollered the word “Serendipity”. At first, I wondered if something was wrong
so I ran into mom’s room with lightening speed. She sat smiling in bed and said
it again. I was only 25 at the time – and I had never heard the word before. I
asked mom what it meant and, becoming more lucid than she had in days, she
replied “an unexpected surprise.”
Mom died a couple weeks later. During the years that followed, I wondered why
that word had come into her mind at that point in her own life. I wondered if
mom was speaking about some insight she was gaining into the afterlife that
day. I have long since learned that the term also refers to a trait resilient
people exhibit – an ability to turn toxic situations into opportunity.
No matter which definition one picks for the word, my cat Serendipity is a
living reminder of the power mom’s words had on me that day. As I type this
story, almost three decades after loosing mama, Serendipity sits watching me
from the shelf of my computer desk. This resilient tortishell in her designer
green collar continues to teach me the meaning of her name on a daily basis.
Thanks, mama, for this unexpected surprise.
asleep in the corner of the litter pan at some SPCA in South Texas. At that
time, I had a Colorado-bred tortishell who was not adapting well to life on
Galveston Island. I thought a companion might ease her pain – though it was
probably my own homesickness I was looking to cure. As I drove through the
unfamiliar plains on my way home from my hike through alligator country, I
spied the shelter sign. As chocolate calls to the stomach when one is on a diet,
that shelter called to me that warm Texas afternoon.
The first thing I noticed about Serendipity, other than her strange choice of
places for a kitten nap, was her beautiful coloring. She was also a tortishell –
but she had long fur with large patches of white. This combination was even
better than the genotype I was envisioning for my new family member.
I approached the counter and asked “What is wrong with that kitten in the
litter pan?” I was concerned, because she was only about half the size of her
(less gorgeous) littermates. A kind Southern voice from behind the counter was
quick to address my concern – “Oh there is nothing wrong with her – She just
needs a bath”. The shelter woman then whipped frail Serendipity out of her
sound sleep in the sand and into the back room. A couple minutes later, she
remerged with a dripping wet kitten, wrapped warmly in a towel.
At that moment in her life, Serendipity’s head was enormous in proportion to
her fragile body. Her ears where mammoth! Silently, I though to myself, “She
looks just like those cute, furry gremlins from that Spielberg movie.” Then the
woman with the compassionate southern drawl spoke words that struck my soul
– “She looks just like a gremlin after her bath, doesn’t she?” How did she know
I was thinking that?
So that was my sign from the Heavens that Serendipity was to come home with
me that warm Texas afternoon. I paid $50 dollars for her. That included a
future spay fee because at that moment, she was too feeble to undergo any
procedures. The woman also explained to me, after cupid’s arrow had struck my
heart, that Serendipity had completed two courses of antibiotics to put her
back on the road to health. I was less than reassured, knowing that Serendipity
was the antithesis of what any vet would tell you to look for when adopting a
kitten.
It was about an hour from that SPCA back to the Island. Serendipity slept in
her box, waking only very occasionally to softly mew in protest to her
cardboard captivity. The whole drive home, the voice in the back of my head
went on about how she would die before we got home and how silly it was to
spend $50 on this particular kitten. When I opened the box, however, those
two golden eyes looked up and me and, once again, melted my soul like a
chocolate bar on a hot Texas afternoon.
My heart sunk once again a couple days later, when I figured out she could not
eat solids. So, already too smitten to do differently, I invested in a supply of
kitten formula. I was reassured when she lapped it down like a hungry billy-
goat. This, by no means, cured her – though her veracious appetite was a
strength that would help pull her through.
Within days, she developed a hacking kennel cough and was infested with mobs
of Gulf Coast fleas. Her eyes were filled with green goop and her whiskers all
fell out. She was the most pathetic little feline to ever enter my life. Though
hopelessly smitten, I knew the odds of her making it to adulthood were skinnier
than Serendipity herself.
Against these odds, my frail kitty just kept lapping down that formula until she
started to grow stronger. One day, she started to play with toys, like a real
kitten. The next thing I knew, she had grown into the most strikingly beautiful
cat I had ever owned. She even outranks the purebred orange Persians my
family raised when I was young. In addition to her physical splendor, she had
also turned into a colorful mass of playful fur, complete with Duracell
batteries to keep her going all night!
When we returned to Colorado about a year later, I took her to the vet for a
check-up and the spay we never got done in Texas. It was then I learned that
she had been thriving despite being home to three types of Southern intestinal
parasite. After another major investment in antibiotics – she fully-
recuperated and has stayed fit-as-a-feline to this very day – she is now 6
years old.
Sometimes folks will ask me where Serendipity got her name. It did not come
from the woman with the kind Southern accent at the SPCA – because I had
picked Serendipity’s name before I ever laid eyes on my scrawny kitten that
day. The name came from my mom – but by a rather indirect route.
Years before, I was visiting mom when she was very close to her own death.
She was asleep much of the time. However, one day she awoke with a start and
hollered the word “Serendipity”. At first, I wondered if something was wrong
so I ran into mom’s room with lightening speed. She sat smiling in bed and said
it again. I was only 25 at the time – and I had never heard the word before. I
asked mom what it meant and, becoming more lucid than she had in days, she
replied “an unexpected surprise.”
Mom died a couple weeks later. During the years that followed, I wondered why
that word had come into her mind at that point in her own life. I wondered if
mom was speaking about some insight she was gaining into the afterlife that
day. I have long since learned that the term also refers to a trait resilient
people exhibit – an ability to turn toxic situations into opportunity.
No matter which definition one picks for the word, my cat Serendipity is a
living reminder of the power mom’s words had on me that day. As I type this
story, almost three decades after loosing mama, Serendipity sits watching me
from the shelf of my computer desk. This resilient tortishell in her designer
green collar continues to teach me the meaning of her name on a daily basis.
Thanks, mama, for this unexpected surprise.
| Serendipity's Story |
