On Choosing When the Vortex Opens

For twelve years, I had a cat who wasn’t really a cat. She greeted me at the door like a dog, was food-obsessed in ways that required intervention, and cuddled with me every chance she got. Her adoption name was Ebony for her beautiful black coat that sparkled in the sun, but she became known as Girl because of how feminine she was. The way she played gently with her paws like she was at a tea party, the way she rubbed against your leg so softly you barely felt it, the way her meow sounded like the littlest girl you’d ever heard.

She turned me into a cat person, which was the real miracle. I grew up terrified of cats. Friends had to lock theirs away when I came over. They’d hiss at me, and I’d convinced myself cats could smell fear. I was a golden retriever person. That’s what I knew. That’s what felt safe.

But Girl came into my life unexpectedly, and over the years she became my medicine. My Xanax, my Ambien, my Prozac in one. A six-pound cat who curled up next to me and purred and purred. She sat with me through the hardest years. When Girl got sick, my life reorganized around her comfort. I couldn’t eat in front of her or she’d attack the food. I couldn’t keep much out or she’d try to eat the inedible. My daily life revolved around her needs, her safety. She lived two years longer than the vet and I expected, and before her twelfth birthday, she showed me it was her time.

Saturday, July 13th, 2024. When death is greeting you at the door, time slows. Moments linger. Details go crisp. You remember.

We slept on the sofa that night because I couldn’t take the thought of her crawling under a bed to die alone. I closed both bedroom doors and she slept curled between my body and the back of the sofa. I moved her litter box to the living room because she could barely walk. I offered her food and drink, and for the first time in twelve years, she refused it. She backed away from the food instead of attacking it like it was her last meal, and I dropped to my knees beside her. I knew.

I called the vet to schedule an appointment for 3pm. I wanted her last breath to be at home. I had five hours left with her, so I spent them with her. I had a Spotify playlist I found going in the background, curated for a pet passing, because music has a way of helping emotions move through me. Girl was fading, barely able to lift her head, so I cradled her and kept her nose clear of the blanket so she could breathe.

When the vet arrived, she confirmed what I already knew. Girl was dying and it was time. I’d done so much grieving that day that when the hour struck, I was as ready as I was going to be. My last few minutes with her weren’t in tears or words, but in peace. My heart was breaking, yes, but I knew it had to break. Death arrives at the doorstep and we have no way to stop it from entering, so we might as well greet it, with a hello and a warm welcome, so it comes through the door gently, and when it leaves with the living thing we love, we know they’re going with the peace we gave.

When Girl’s heart stopped beating, I put her into the cat bed the vet had brought. The vet offered to carry her down to the car, but I asked if I could. I walked my no-longer-living beloved soul cat down the courtyard, out the door, into the street, and into the trunk of a woman I’d just met. For the last time. My neighbors were outside and they watched me carry my dead cat, tears streaming down my face. I was okay until I carried her. For the last time.

I spent the next three months sleeping in the guest room (“her room”) because it was the last bed we’d slept in together the night before the sofa. I couldn’t go back to my bedroom. Not yet. I was in deep grief. Grief I didn’t anticipate or know what to do with. There were nights I wanted to die, I missed her so much. I felt numb. I moved through life without it being apparent, but at night when I came home, I felt the absence. She wasn’t at the door to greet me. Gut punch. I didn’t hear her cry. Gut punch. I didn’t have to lock her away when I made food. Gut punch. I didn’t have to hide flowers people sent me for fear she’d eat them. Gut punch.

Gut punch after gut punch, until the gut punches turned to freedom.

Freedom to not adjust my daily life to keep her safe. I could do whatever I wanted, however I wanted. It was the first time in sixteen years I didn’t have a pet or a person to worry about other than myself. My decisions were based on my needs and not the needs around me. When the fog finally lifted around the three-month mark, I started to see the beauty of this freedom. For the first time, I could rest within my life without the needs of something else overshadowing my own. This moment in time was a gift.

—

I saw her barking at me in my neighbor’s window and thought, That’s the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen. Then, how fun! They got a dog!

A few days later, I learned the truth. She wasn’t theirs. She was a foster named Golden. The neighbors explained they couldn’t keep her due to a family allergy, but they loved fostering when they could. I felt something tug on my heart that day. A pull. But the fear of commitment, the idea of life changing so drastically (my new freedom gone?!) pushed down that feeling.

Over the next month, I saw her here and there. Sweet Golden, still waiting to go home. Eventually, I asked if anyone had shown interest. No one had. To each of our surprise. I heard myself say, “Keep me posted if someone does.” Their eyes lit up. Maybe their dream of her staying nearby would come true. I wasn’t there yet.

Then came the text: a family was interested and meeting her the next day. I replied, half-joking: “If it doesn’t work out, maybe that’s a sign. Keep me posted.”

The next morning: it didn’t work out. The family loved her, but their son showed signs of an allergy. Then they told me they were going out of town for two weeks and planned to return her to the foundation the next day. In that moment, I knew. It was time. Time to foster her. To see if this feeling was real. If I could really do this.

I brought Golden home the next day. Unprepared, overwhelmed, completely in over my head. As the foster parents went over details, I asked how often they took her out to the bathroom. “Every 1.5 hours.” I almost fainted and said I’d made a terrible mistake. 1.5 hours? My life flashed before me. How could I work? How could I go to Pilates? Dinners out? Do anything at all? I felt my world crumble, shrink. Fear washed over me. But I couldn’t show that. So I didn’t. “Okay, got it!” I said, and packed up her things and brought her home.

The next few days were a blur. Bathroom breaks several times a night. I didn’t sleep. Bags formed under my eyes. I wanted to call in a night nurse for puppies. On day four, I took her to my office. Thankfully it was dog-friendly, or I wouldn’t have even considered this. When she walked in, smiles greeted her. Squeals of excitement. She loved it. She had new friends, new smells. They loved her too. So much that four people inquired about adoption. I was now in competition for her. The puppy barely anyone had inquired about for two months was suddenly in demand. My instinct kicked in when I said, “I’ll let you know.” But internally: she’s mine.

And by day four, everything had already shifted. I watched her sleep on my living room floor that night, one paw twitching in a dream, and thought: I would die for this dog I’ve known for 96 hours. The joy she brought me. The people I met in just four days. The way life actually expanded because of her. I’d said I wanted a golden. I grew up with a golden retriever. And the universe literally gave me Golden… crate trained, potty trained, perfect temperament, a total angel. The realization hit me like a vortex opening: Do I want life to expand? Or stay small? Do I choose the gift in front of me? Or stay safe? I felt in my gut this dog was the beginning of a new chapter, ushering in more blessings than I could dream of. She already had. In just a few days. I came home and started the adoption paperwork. The next day, the text came through: she was officially mine. Golden “Goldie” Risley.

Adoption day, May 2025

—

It wasn’t long after that reality sank in. The euphoria crashed into exhaustion. My neighbors returned from their trip.

The minute Goldie saw them, she lost it. In a really-I-love-you way, but it showed me the bond she had with them. They’d had her for two months. I was on week two. She ran to them like a reunion of saints running into the arms of angels. She jumped on them and whined I love you through the grin glued to her face. When I brought her back upstairs to our home, her new home, she sat by the door and whined. Cried so long, gazing out the window, waiting for them to come back.

I sat on the floor next to her and felt it: rejection. It broke my heart in that moment. This puppy didn’t want me. This puppy I was losing sleep over and changing my life for. Why was I doing this when she doesn’t even want me? Was it to save her? Or was it to save myself?

I read everything I could find about how dogs bond. Her bond with her foster parents was the strongest she’d had. Two months was the longest she’d had a home anywhere. My two weeks couldn’t compete. That’s normal. It takes time. Time to bond. Time for real love to form. That evening, I made a commitment to keep pushing through, whatever I was going through, and allow her the same. We both had big feelings about the change. And that’s okay.

We still see her foster parents regularly. Every time, she explodes with joy: tail wagging, whining, jumping all over them like they’ve been gone for years instead of days. The first few times, it made me feel rejected. But somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling threatened by how much she loves them. Dogs are pack animals. They don’t love in hierarchy, they love in circle. Her foster parents are part of her pack. They always will be. And that doesn’t take anything away from us. If anything, it shows me the bond we’ve built. She can run to them with joy and still rest her head on my leg when we get home. Still nuzzle into me when she’s tired. Still choose me as her person.

Stomach issues from eating something on the Santa Monica streets sent her to the vet a dozen times over the next few weeks. My freezer became a stockpile of chicken and rice in perfectly portioned meals (iykyk). Then she got spayed, which meant weeks of recovery before she could play again or join the daycare I’d found nearby. Those were really hard weeks. I survived.

A couple months in, she started daycare or “school”, as I call it, a few days a week. She could play with other dogs, burn off energy, be a puppy. I could work without feeling like I was neglecting her. I started to feel like myself again. Our time together became cherished instead of suffocating.

The summer heat lingered into fall, and our walks together grew long as the sun set later. I started meeting people everywhere, all the time, because she was next to me. People smiled at me in ways they hadn’t before. They stopped and said hello. I had conversations with strangers that felt nothing like strangers. Community blossomed around me.

One evening, we were playing with one of her friends in a park nearby. I said her name, motioning her to come my way. She pranced right over. It was the first time I felt she was really, truly mine. She came to me. I was her home. In the middle of a grass park, I was the figure that represented home base. It was love. It was real. We crossed the threshold of the bond I’d deeply desired. It wasn’t cuddling on the sofa that did it. It was her bouncing over to join me because I asked her to. With generous, abundant, happy energy, she came home to her Mom.

—

Nine months ago, my life was wonderful and abundant in a “me” way. Now it’s abundant in an “us” way. A way that makes me feel part of something bigger than myself. Part of a team. Having a family. A family of two.

The puppy barking in that window was barking to me. She waited for me for two months. To be ready. To say yes. To go all in. To commit. To love.

I’m writing this on the same sofa where Girl took her last breath. Goldie is curled next to me, one paw stretched across my leg. The same spot where I cradled Girl as she left. Where I thought my heart may never recover. Where grief felt like the only thing that would ever live here again.

Girl died in July 2024. Ten months later, in May 2025, I adopted Goldie. In between: eight months of grief turning to freedom, two months of watching her in the window before I said yes.

I didn’t see it then, but Girl had made space. Grief doesn’t just take. It clears space for what comes next. Her leaving opened a door I didn’t know I was ready to walk through. She gave me those ten months of freedom so I could learn the difference. That choosing responsibility doesn’t mean losing freedom. That I could have both. That life is richer when something needs you, as long as you don’t shrink yourself to hold it. That responsibility doesn’t have to mean disappearing. Being needed used to mean becoming less. With Goldie, it meant becoming more.

My golden “Goldie” girl. Girl would have loved you, too.

You bark now. That changed after the ten-month mark. But in that window, waiting for me? You didn’t bark. You were calling me home.

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