This is Furball, my beloved cat who crossed the rainbow bridge in 2020. In the summer before he passed, I made this image to celebrate his 19th birthday. For many years, Furball was my muse. After his passing, I was inspired to write and submit a “Chicken Soup for the Soul” story about him a couple of years ago. I didn’t hear back from the Chicken Soup people, but I reworked the story this morning and wanted to share it with you.

P.S. Please don’t feel like you have to write a long story about your pet. I happened to write this story as a cathartic experience after Furball’s passing. Photos are always fun! And hearing tidbits of your pets’ personalities is always heartwarming.

Here’s a story about Furball:

Furball was an amazing jumper, and his leaping prowess was matched with an equally high level of energy. He was just 7-weeks old when I adopted him, but I never witnessed him sleep a wink for the entire first year of his life. He was always racing around and wanted me to play with him. All. Of. The. Time.

That’s why when the home was unusually quiet, I knew something was amiss. What was the cat up to? 

No sooner had the thought crossed my mind when I heard the wailing. 

I walked down the long narrow hallway of my apartment to investigate. We lived on the second floor of a converted Victorian semi-detached house. It was most definitely not open concept. Every few steps took me to the doorway of a room, and I glanced inside each.

Living room? No cat. Office? No cat? I could see the kitchen at the end of the hall, but no cat. Then I reached the bathroom and heard a pitiful meow from up high. I looked up—way up—and saw a wild ball of black fur with large green eyes staring down at me. 

Furball was perched precariously on top of the bathroom door.

I realized that he must have leapt with Olympic gymnast precision from the sink vanity onto the thin edge of the door. His head bobbed up and down as he wobbled and paced, causing the door to sway in the frame. I was afraid he’d fall off. 

Hurriedly, I grabbed a chair from the kitchen, climbed up, and reached for the cat. But the door was too high, and I was too short. It also didn’t help that Furball was high-strung by nature, and defaulted to nipping and scratching when he was overly excited. 

How could I get the cat down? Inspiration struck! 

I ran to the living room and brought back a couch cushion. While awkwardly climbing the kitchen chair, I held up the sofa seat like a serving platter to the cat. 

Furball accepted the offering and gingerly stepped onto the cushion. Then I carefully descended, and lowered the cat to the floor. The cat hopped off and sauntered away with the nonchalance of a cat. 

I went back to the living room to reassemble the couch. As I marveled at my cat’s jumping prowess, I noticed it was once again too quiet…

I heard a thunk followed immediately by kitten mews. 

This time I knew where to find Furball. He was back on top of the bathroom door looking sad and pitiful. With a sigh, I repeated the couch cushion rescue. I hadn’t even returned to the living room when I heard another thunk. 

Sure enough, Furball was back on top of the door. I looked up at at the fuzzy little black kitten and told him that he’d have to wait a little longer since he seemed to enjoy jumping up there. Then I sauntered nonchalantly down the hall back to the living room.

The crying got louder.

I let out a giant sigh and turned around to head back to the bathroom. Before I got there, I heard a loud crash. Fearing the worst, I ran the rest of the way, but my fears were unfounded. 

Furball was absolutely fine. He looked quite proud of himself. 

Throughout our years together, Furball would continue jumping to new heights, and impressing me with his jumping abilities. When I got married and moved to a home with 9-foot high ceilings, it didn’t take long for Furball to discover the top of the kitchen cabinets. It was a common sight to see his shadowy form “dusting” the 12-inch space between the cabinets and ceiling.

When my son was learning how to crawl, we installed a baby gate to childproof the stairs. We ordered the extra tall “pet proof” gate, hoping it would keep Furball from coming upstairs in the wee hours to scratch the carpet outside our bedroom door. As new parents, we needed all the sleep we could get. 

We should have saved some money and gotten a regular baby gate.

Furball easily conquered the pet proof gate with a feline parkour move. He would take a running leap at the wall beside the gate. Then he bounced off the wall and twisted his body mid-air to land solidly on the stairs, and continued racing up without breaking his stride.

That cat sure could jump. 

His most impressive leap was at the vet’s office. 

Like all pets, he hated going to the vet. He cried non-stop in his carrier until he was let out onto the examination table in the vet’s office. While we were waiting for the vet, I expected that Furball would explore the room. However, he remained fixed on the table, fixated on the ceiling. 

I mistakenly thought he was soothed by being released from the carrier. Oops, I was wrong.  

Furball glanced at the picture frame on the wall, and then he looked at the skylight directly above the examination table. All of a suddenly, he sprang up and grabbed the top of the frame with his front paws. Tucking in his hindlegs, he hooked his back toes onto the artwork and continued his upward momentum. He looked like he was running up the wall. 

Then he twisted 180-degrees to hurl himself at the dome of the skylight. One of his front paws reached to the sky toward freedom while the other paw clawed frantically at the ceiling tile. 

Time stood still for an instant. Gravity was also overcome for a moment.

Time resumed and Furball landed on the floor. So did a chunk of ceiling tile, followed by a shower of chalky dust. 

I looked up at the speckled ceiling tiles. There was a paw-shaped hole in the tile right next to the skylight. It was matched by a paw-sized chunk on the floor. My husband and I looked at each other mouths agape. 

I glanced at the door. No one seemed to have heard the noise. 

I hastily straightened the picture frame while my husband picked up the ceiling chunk and tossed it in the trash can. He tried displacing the dust with his shoe. When the vet opened the door a few minutes later, we sheepishly admitted the damage our cat had done. 

The vet looked up at the ceiling, and she was impressed by how high Furball had jumped. My husband and I beamed like proud parents. Over the years, we’ve shared this story many times with friends. 

After 19 years of being together, Furball passed away from old age. He lived a good life, but it was hard to say goodbye. It took me almost year before I was ready to pack away his things. 

While I no longer see his cat bed in the corner or his food bowl next to the table, Furball left an indelible mark on my heart. 

He also left one on the ceiling of the vet’s office.