Yesterday our beloved cat Musia died.

Musia is from St. Petersberg, Russia.  She came from one of the city’s “kitten clubs” and we were told that she is Siberian.  She arrived sight unseen to us 16 years ago.  Here is the story.

My dance company was performing Ghostdance in St. Petersberg.  One evening after rehearsals, we were strolling on the Kamennoostrovsky Bridge.  As we walked we saw people were standing with boxes of kittens that they were selling.  In one box was a tiny, tiny kitten with  dot on his nose.  I was smitten.  We did not take him.  We could not find a carrier, a vet.  As we were leaving, in the airport, we saw an American family smiling happily with their Russian kitten in a carrier.  I was struck with remorse.

Over the next week, I corresponded with my Russian contact, Helen Zinchik, who actually managed to find the kitten because of his distinctive markings.  Lisa First, the festival organizer agreed to fly the kitten to JFK where we would meet her during her brief layover on the way back to Minneapolis.  At the last minute Helen called and said, “Will you take another kitten?  Her name is Musia.  I have her sister Dusia.”  Of course we would.

We would fly from Martha’s Vineyard to JFK to meet her.  Our plane was late.  As we circled over JFK, I knew the window was closing.  Finally we landed, and I raced through the airport to find Lisa.  She had five minutes before her flight.  We connected, and she handed me the carrier, a quick hug, and I ran back through the airport for our flight that was also departing momentarily.  The security machine was broken, and so (pre-2001) the agent waved me through.  I could see Musia’s black and white tufted paws waving through the carrier door.

Pam literally stood in the door of our aircraft, saying the the agitated attendants, “She’s coming, she’s coming!”  I made it, and we finally had a chance to see our new Ghostdance kittens.  Nikita was tiny, huddled in the back of the carrier, with that dot on his nose.  Musia was all fur, feet and whiskers.

Some of you may think this is a silly, extravagant story.  Perhaps.  But it also feels karmic.  These two were supposed to be with us, supposed to join our family and help to create the transition for our newly adopted seven-year old daughter.

This morning we skyped with both girls so that they could say goodbye to Musia.  One of them remembered carrying Musia around in a little cloth basket, which she endured patiently, along with being dressed in doll’s clothing, and smothered with hugs.  The other was quiet, “I love you Musia.”

She is the most equanimous cat we have ever known.  Total presence and total balance.  Thank you, Musia, thank you.