When to call the witches

1-800 dark magic

My 15-year-old cat died recently (which, I realize, is a real bummer of a way to start an essay). But he did die and his loss was huge and awful and the house smelled like his dying for days.

Miko on one of our afternoon walks.

I always imagined Miko’s passing would be peaceful. I thought maybe he’d drift away in his sleep or gradually become ill and gently tell me when it was time. But that didn’t happen. One day, he just sprung up from a nap, hissed into thin air, and 48 hours later, he was dead in my bed—a tumor as large as a gooseberry growing against his throat.

Cats release gas as they’re dying, and Miko stunk the sheets. I sobbed so forcefully, the at-home vet began to cry too and our breath slid together for a moment, the way wolves harmonize in the dark.

The vet said a lot of owners leave for the actual euthanasia but I didn’t want Miko to think I’d abandoned him in that middle place, in the lonely stretch of field between this world and the next, so I buried my face in his stinky fur and stayed. I don’t know any blessings for dying cats so I just kept saying I love you and thank you on repeat.

Miko and I when we were both very young things.

I’ve never been a very successful witch, but I tried some small magic as he died and, indeed, I felt our chemicals merge into that shimmering mandala that appears at the helm of all passages, in the collapse and rebirth of time. In that Elysian fizz, I begged him to haunt me.

Then, the vet carried his body out and the house turned quiet as a bone.

My friends are better witches than I am. They know about astrology and tarot. They understand how to bless cats, enchant garden beds, curse ex-boyfriends. They have spells for road trips, making wine, and the summer equinox.

I grew up as a hyper Christian kid who was never allowed to play the Ouija board or read Harry Potter. My parents, old school Baptist missionaries, worried even The Smurfs were demonic, so I was always wary of witchery. What I did have, however, was a fundamental understanding of ritual and prayer. I knew the significance of speaking earnestly into the air, of crying out, of seeing the world as multi-planed, full of invisible splendor.

The wisdom of prayer is the genesis of all poetry, I think.

When Miko died, I called my witches and they appeared at my neighborhood bar bearing gifts—a heavy stuffed animal the exact weight of Miko, a hand-made mug full of tea bags, a home-made quiche, an easy-to-care-for succulent, bottles of orange wine, piles of dark chocolate.

My dearest witches (along with my ex and now friend who was allowed to be a honorary witch for the evening).

After I left Christianity, I was afraid to pray for a long time. Instead, I asked my friends to say prayers for me—I figure they might have more of a direct line to Whatever Is Out There. As I've gotten older, I've come to realize we all have direct lines. And that we need it for all kinds of things: dying cats, bad dates, missed periods, hospital visits, new jobs. I find everything is spiritual now in the same way that everything is political. Time gets holier by the minute.

Miko walked beside me for 15 years, through grad school, and a near marriage, from Ohio to Oregon, through writing a book, and launching it into the world. And he left me right before my 40th year—that decade where you really wake up to your witchiness, where you finally learn to dog-paddle in that mysterious and sacred current.

Miko’s death feels like a portal. As I leave my 39th year, I find I’m turning darker and more velvet—something shimmering beneath skin. My eyeteeth grow sharper. I hiss a little when stepped on. I pray over dead cats and summon love in all directions.

Last week, I adopted two dark owl-eyed kittens. I sing them lullabies at night and carry them from room to room on my shoulders. The first humans who met the kittens were my witches, who came to bless them as they grow.

Meet Fig & Ollie.

Miko’s ashes lie in the garden bed just beneath my bedroom window so we can stand watch now while the other sleeps.