Meditating with O'Malley
I’ve been meditating for over a decade, and I can’t recall a single stretch when my cats weren’t right beside me during my morning practice. I never gave it much thought—just the quiet companionship of animals who are, in many ways, the masters of presence.
We rescued three kitten brothers in 2008. They were tiny, just barely old enough to be without their mama. Last year, we said goodbye to Trigger. Yesterday, we let O’Malley go. O’Malley was the “middle child.” The bridge between two brothers who never got along, he was the diplomat—gentle, social, and persistent when he wanted something, yet always carrying an unmistakable air of Zen.
I didn’t realize the depth of our connection until later in life, after the kids had moved out and life slowed. He became my quiet shadow. Wherever I went, he watched. If I carried a blanket to the yard to practice yoga or watch the clouds, he came. I never called him. He just knew.
Three months ago, we learned he had a mass in his bladder. We promised not to prolong his life for our own sake, but it was hard to tell when we were truly honoring his experience—and when we were just hoping. This past weekend, John and I knew. Deep down, I felt it. Still, I resisted. “He’s still eating. He still cuddles. He still munches grass and pukes it up. He’s probably okay, right?”
Meditation helped. Talking with friends helped. Listening—to myself and to O'Malley—helped. I’m still questioning the timing, of course. That’s part of grief. But those thoughts pass. I know my final gift to him was love: to release him before the pain took over.
This morning, only Milo—our final cat—joined me for meditation. A bit noisily, I’ll admit. He, too, is adjusting. Trying to make sense of this new world without O'Malley’s grounding presence. But I know O’Malley and I will continue to soar together. I’ll carry his stillness with me, always. He taught me how to be, just by being.
Rest well, sweet O’Malley. Your handsome face and gentle spirit remain with me. Always.
xo
