Maxwell Edison and a Little Knob Creek Whiskey

I’ve always been more of a dog person.

I grew up with Shelties — miniature collies with big hearts and bigger opinions — so animals were always part of the background of my childhood. But cats? Cats were never really my choice. They felt like a different species of relationship: more independent, more aloof, more… cat.

And then came Max.

Maxwell Edison, technically — named by my daughter after the Beatles song. He was a rescue cat found on the street, plump and scrappy and already carrying the kind of backstory that makes you want to wrap an animal in a blanket and take them home immediately. He’d had a reaction to his immunizations, so his back legs never worked quite right. When the rescue organization put him in a crate outside a store, he was the one no one picked.

(If you know me, you know I’ve banned myself from animal rescue situations for exactly this reason. I cannot handle seeing animals alone and suffering. My heart is a magnet for the wounded and overlooked.)

My daughter saw him, fell in love instantly, and brought him home during a time when the bottom had fallen out of our family life in ways none of us expected. The house felt too quiet, too uncertain, too full of transition. I didn’t know it then, but Max was arriving right on time.

When my daughter graduated high school and left for college — dorms being famously anti‑cat — I inherited him. I told myself it was temporary. I told myself I was still a dog person. I told myself a lot of things.

Max told me “hi.”

Literally. He learned to parrot me. Every time I walked into a room, he’d meow this earnest little “hi” back at me, like a tiny, furry roommate trying his best to speak English. It was ridiculous and endearing and completely disarming.

And slowly, without asking permission, Max became mine.

He followed me everywhere — from room to room, from desk to couch to bed. He sat at my feet while I worked. He put his paw on me when I was lying down, as if to say, I’m here. I’ve got you. He loved eating and was always delightfully plump, like a cat who believed wholeheartedly in abundance.

He wasn’t just present. He was protective. Attuned. A little guardian with a crooked gait and a big spirit.

And he arrived during the exact chapter of my life when everything was falling apart.

I didn’t choose him. But he chose me.

This week, Max got sick. And by Friday, he was suffering. It was time. I felt ridiculous bawling in the vet’s office, but the truth is: I had fallen in love with this animal and his quirky little “hi.” He had been with me through all the healing — the nights I wasn’t sure if everything was going to be okay, the mornings I was rebuilding myself piece by piece. And he left when it was okay… when I was following my dreams… settled… peaceful… rooted. He knew I no longer needed him in the same way.

There’s something spiritual about that. Animals have a way of staying through the storm and slipping away when the ground is finally steady again. As if their work — with us, for us — is complete.

And then something beautiful happened.

Last night my son called and said, “Answer your door and bring your ID.” I was thinking, What in the world? He had DoorDashed me a bottle of Knob Creek Whiskey — my favorite. (Yes, I’m a cool therapist.) He told me that he and his sister had bought the same thing and wanted to do a toast to Max and to me. My son who hates cats. My daughter who hates whiskey. I can’t believe I raised these humans.

So we toasted to Max. We laughed at the oddness of toasting a cat. My daughter sent me things about the spiritual meaning of cats. And I felt so grateful. Grateful for healing. Grateful to be loved in this way. Grateful that the cat I didn’t even want to love somehow knew exactly what I needed.

I’m telling you this because I get calls every day from people reaching out for help — my animal died… I’m getting divorced… my spouse cheated… I lost my job… I don’t know how to love myself. We all have struggle in common.

But we also have something else in common: The love we give is never wasted.

Not when plans fall through. Not when someone dies. Not when life doesn’t go the way we hoped. Love is never, ever wasted.

It comes back in other forms — new abundance, new connections, your adult kids toasting you at 8:00 p.m. on a Friday night. Those are the moments of joy that always circle back after the pain.

Here’s to Maxwell Edison. And here’s to all of those who have lost. Thank you for loving in a way that changes people.

Nerd Moment: The Spirituality of Cats

Since my daughter sent me down the rabbit hole, let me share the part that made me smile through the tears.

Across cultures, cats have always been seen as:

• Threshold guardians — animals who sit between worlds, sensing what we cannot.

• Emotional barometers — attuned to the nervous system, settling near us when our energy is fractured.

• Protectors of the unseen — in folklore, they guard the home not just physically, but energetically.

• Companions of transition — appearing during endings, beginnings, and identity shifts.

In ancient traditions, cats were believed to:

• Absorb negative energy

• Sit with people during grief or illness

• Sense emotional truth beneath the surface

• Leave when their spiritual “assignment” is complete

And honestly? That tracks.

Max arrived when my life was unraveling. He stayed through the rebuilding. He left when I was whole.

If that’s not spiritual, I don’t know what is.