What My “Batcat” Taught Me About Healing and Humanity

In the late spring of 2021, when all three of my kids were home doing school online, we — like so many families — decided to add an animal to our family.

To be clear, I didn’t want another cat.

We already had one, Rio — a sunny, golden yellow tabby. The kind of cat that is always on someone’s lap. He’s loyal, protective, and screeches at the mailman like he’s guarding a castle.

But under extreme pressure (and against my better judgment), we found ourselves at a local shelter — late to the COVID animal adoption craze. There were only two kittens left.

One, a dark gray stray with a solid Persian coat, had instantly captured my kids’ hearts. The shelter told us she’d been found outside with her brother — a skittish, fearful little thing. An immediate red flag for me. Oh brother, I thought to myself.

I pleaded with my kids to wait for a calmer, happier bunch to arrive.

I didn’t win.

The next morning, at the end of my jog, two of my three kids came running toward me, panicked:

“The kitten jumped into the heating duct and won’t come out!”

My point — unhappily — proven.

We spent hours trying to coax her out, shutting down the furnace so she wouldn’t jump in and burn to her death. (Not what I needed on my Saturday afternoon.)

Twelve hours later, lured by the smell of salmon, she finally emerged.

We named her Sky.

Four years later, Sky still lives mostly in the shadows. She comes out around 5:30 p.m. — just as the day begins to wind down — and greets us softly. She doesn’t participate much, but she’s steady now. Watchful from the sidelines. Still scared.

In our home, we have two opposite spirits: the light and the dark. The sun and the sky. The hopeful and the afraid.

And isn’t that humanity?

Rio represents the open, trusting part of us — the one that believes the world is safe and hopeful. Sky represents the guarded place — the one that has known loss or fear and learned to survive by hiding.

I’ve made it my quiet mission to help Sky trust again. Late at night, when everyone’s gone to bed, she’ll jump up and allow me to rub her belly briefly. The duration has increased with time.

I don’t know what happened in her early weeks to leave such a deep, impermeable scar. But I do know it’s my work — and maybe all of our work — to bring more safety, patience, and love into the spaces where fear still lingers.

Because, unlike Sky, we humans were gifted with conscious choice.

We can remind ourselves that we are in the present moment now. We can visit the past and glance at the future, but only for information — not as our compass.

Sky may always be our “batcat,” but she reminds me daily to bring my peace, calm, and grace to the world, especially when I’m tired or running on fumes.

When she appears each evening, we all instinctively soften. The kids whisper, “Hi Sky, it’s so good to see you.” We tread lighter. We slow down. There’s more kindness in our tones.

And in those moments, she teaches us something profound: that we all have weathered storms, and we all have a bit of the ‘batcat’ in us — that part that wants to retreat when life feels too big.

But healing happens when love walks in softly enough to trust again.

Sky reminds me to do that — for her, for others, and for myself.

This week, when you see someone you sense may be hurting or in the dark, don’t pass them by as I almost did to Sky. Instead, choose to bring them your light and love.

We could all use more of that.

In it with you,

~Rita