As I arrived home with my empty cat carrier, walking up to the house and unlocking the front door felt like it took forever. Almost like everything was in slow motion. I opened the front door and heard the long creak of what I would come to find out was the back door swinging open, I paused. It was only the reaction of my other cats, and my partner, that signaled to me that I wasn’t hearing things. Even still, I walked further into the house slowly, cautiously until I reached the kitchen. Before I even walked over to close the door I turned back around and looked at my partner saying, “The back door just opened”. He looked back at me, seeming just as confused as I felt. “How’d that happen? How is that possible?” I said, before closing the door— realizing that the knob was locked, but the deadbolt was not. Immediately I told myself, “Okay well, surely there’s a reason for that”. I would then spend the next couple of days locking and unlocking the door, leaving it slightly ajar whether it be for five minutes or an hour, and then going and opening the front door. Sometimes I opened it gently, other times I opened it with purpose. I drove myself crazy trying different combinations to attempt to make the back door swing open as it had before. Convinced if I could get the *obvious* air flow in the house correct, I could cause the door to fly opened via rapid air displacement. Duh. That had to be the answer. Nothing worked. And unfortunately for me, I was a child who watched a lot of MythBusters, which only made it all more frustrating. Testing multiple scenarios to try and get the same result and getting nothing? Not even a budge? It didn’t make sense. It still doesn’t.

It was about two days after McFly was put down that I got the call to come pick up his ashes at the pet crematorium. So I got in my car and prepared myself for the, roughly, hour long drive to the facility. I just made it into the city and was taking the exit that would lead me to the east side of Pittsburgh when I looked up and the car in front of me had a custom license plate that simply read, “MEOW”. This genuinely had to be some sick twisted joke. I think I stopped breathing for a second. Of all the cars, in all of Pittsburgh, this one just so happened to be meowing at me? At a time like this? That alone made it, to quote myself in the moment, “the most McFly-coded bullshit I’ve ever seen in my life”.

Because yes, he was that annoying. Always there when you didn’t need him to be, yelling about something he didn’t need to have. A pest. Part of his charm, I suppose. And there he was, clear as day, bothering me on the highway, I was convinced. I drove behind that car for another 5 miles before we went our separate ways. I considered it a final goodbye from my boy. Making sure I was actually coming to pick him up. I’m sure there were times when he was at the emergency vet overnight where he thought I wasn’t coming back. Though, how could he ever miss me when the nice vet techs always spoiled him so? Treats and pets. He always came home so much softer than when he left. Impeccable care and a spa day rolled into one! I did mention that McFly loved making new friends, yes? This went double if you had treats. Nevertheless, I got there. The soft-voiced individual at the front desk had him ready to go when I walked in. They shared their condolences, I thanked them, and I left. Once I reached the car I checked for his paw print and his fur before placing him in the passenger seat and taking him home. The final looping of an unfortunate routine we’ve had for years, this time drastically different than before. He was not meowing nor was he peaking his head out of his carrier. There was no 15lb weight on my lap making it slightly more difficult to steer; anything to be comforted in the scary car. He was just a vial in a bag now. Quiet and still.

Once I brought McFly’s ashes back to the house it was like my soul started to ache a bit less. It still hurt, it always will, but I could take a deep breath. I knew where he was. He was safe. Different, but safe. As the energy of my home began to re-calibrate I felt like I may be able to slowly start to recover (I was being overly optimistic). But seriously, at this point I had gone through the hardest parts— the decision, the loss, the first time coming home, telling friends and family, picking up his ashes, and even trying to soothe my other cat Uhura in her confusion and grief (more on that later). I thought I had reached rock bottom and eventually I would crawl out of it, starting now. Failing to understand that grief comes in waves, and I was just getting started.

I spent so much of the back half of McFly’s life jokingly telling him he “wasn’t going to get away from me that easy”. I made threats to have him made into taxidermy, his skeleton articulated, and of course, freeze dried. At no point did I think I’d be eating my own words. I had thought that the weird post-cat death coincidences were over with. What else could happen, after all. Even with all of the strange happenings— that I was reluctantly referring to as signs from McFly— nothing, and I truly mean nothing, could have prepared me for the weirdness that was yet to come. I think it was that next week that was the most egregious. Starting off with roller derby practice, one of my teammates asked me if there’s anything that she could do to help me. I half-jokingly responded with, “unfortunately, I abide by the rules of the Pet Semetery, so no”. For those not into horror, this just means that I know what I want cannot be. I want my cat to come back from the dead, but the being that would come back wouldn’t be him. She said she understood and we went about our evening. It would be a couple days later when I was in Walmart, trolling through the five dollar movie bin, where I would find that exact film. Pet Semetary, in a box set. Of course, I thought to myself, “What are the odds of that?” before placing it in my cart. I would turn around, go back to that same bin, and dig just a little bit further before I found something that shouldn’t have been in the bin at all. I grabbed what happened to be a Hot Wheels car of the DeLorean from Back to the Future. I truly have never even seen a DeLorean in Hot Wheels form until this very second. Again, what are the odds of that? I turned to my partner and showed him and simply asked, “am I going crazy?” Speechless at first, he eventually assured me that no, I’m not crazy. Of course, I bought it.

Just a few days after that, I was watching the Try Guys in an attempt to mentally cleanse my brain of sadness. They were playing some strange offshoot of charades. Similar premise, different rules. The clue was “your fly is down”. For whatever reason, the biggest goofball of all of the individuals on the screen saw his coworker miming ‘fly’ (as in a jeans zipper), and yelled, “Marty McFly”. My partner, Max, hadn’t heard it so I made him rewind the video and watch it back. When it finally clicked, he turned and just stared at me and I responded with, “what are the odds?”

In all of my years of enjoying the movie Back to the Future, in all of the 12 years of my beloved Marty McFly’s life, I have never heard more references to either of those things than in the three weeks that followed his passing. I felt like I was being teased. Like he was just in the other room, meowing at me to come in there, but when I would follow, he disappeared. It was so unbelievably akin to who he was in life. Hiding himself in the shadows just out of my reach, silently lurking right behind me. Over our time together I had become so good at sensing him in the room. He’d be sure to be light on his paws, making certain the bell on his collar didn’t even ring, and still I’d say, “what are you doing?” Most times being met with the most confused, inquisitive little meow. You could truly hear the question mark behind it. As if to say “how the hell did you know I was here?” I feel as though that’s the game he’s playing now. He loves games. “Can you see me?” “Do you know I’m here?” “Did you know that was me?” “Will you play with me?”

The answer to all being: Yes, Marty. Of course.

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The events that led up to McFly’s passing have caused just as much posthumous strife to my mental health as his passing itself. In the moment, it was just me telling stories about McFly, having conversations with people, making jokes, but after he was gone it was like a breadcrumb trail that led me right to what was going to occur. Just three weeks before McFly died I was having a conversation with friends about how I had just paid off his medical bill from the last time that he had a blockage. For reference, McFly suffered from urinary crystals, you could think of them as kidney stones, but because the urethra of male cat is not wide enough to pass them, they can lead to blockages, backups, and eventually death. He had had four blockages like this in the past. The first happening when he was a year old and the most recent, at the time, being in 2022. If I’m remembering correctly I made the joke in that moment that, if he were to get another one, “it’s curtains”. Stating, “I wouldn’t be able to help him, I’m simply just not in a position to”.

On January 8th, just five days before McFly died, a friend came over to give me a cake for my birthday. We stood in my kitchen and somehow ended up in a conversation about how when McFly dies I would love to have him freeze dried. I had seen a woman on TikTok years before who had gotten her cat freeze dried and now they live in a curio case in her home. That would be my dream for him. I’ve always told people “I’ve spent so much money on him, he’s not getting away from me that easy”. I genuinely went into detail about the process, though it’s not something I ever looked up financially, frankly because I thought I had more time. Nevertheless, it was discussed.

On January 10^th, three days before he passed, I had gotten home from a roller derby bout and took a picture of him to send to my partner. His face looked different and I could tell it did but the only thing that I sent to him was, “McFly genuinely looks so sad”. I figured it was because he wanted food, he always did, I had no idea that his body was already fighting something. That same weekend my partner and I were making the same tired joke about how when McFly doesn’t get his way, he’ll “crystal”. “Oh hell, Flip’s pouting. God forbid he crystals and then we’re at the vet again”. Then I looked at him and said, “And you know what McFly, I won’t be able to do it. I don’t have the money to save you again. That’ll be it”. A joke, of course, but that doesn’t matter now.

It wouldn’t be until Monday morning, January 12th, where I would be sitting on my couch, I’d reach over to pet McFly, and when he didn’t start purring I would notice something was wrong. Like always, my brain starts reeling because I know it can only be one thing— the thing that it always is— a blockage. But even still he wasn’t acting like that, this was different. I tried to bribe him with a couple of treats to see if he was just in a mood and when he didn’t take them I packed him up and I took him to the vet. When I got there they told me that he was suffering from a kidney infection, not a blockage but not much better. After all, he still wasn’t using the litter box. I considered it a pseudo-blockage, if anything. They gave him some medication and told me to contact a separate office about getting him an MRI and ultimately sent me on my way. There’s nothing you can really do about a cat that isn’t blocked even though they’re acting like it. I knew it was a waiting game. See if the meds work, see if he eats, see if he drinks water. That’s how it’s always been. So when I got home, I set up a cot in my office with a litter box so I could be sure that he was going to the bathroom, gave him his meds, and hunkered down for the night. I was up probably every hour. We were both uncomfortable, scared, and holding on to each other for dear life. There was a moment around 2:00 AM where he had an accident and I cleaned it up I put him back on his blanket to try and get him comfortable. For whatever reason my brain decided that this was the time to say goodbye. I just sat with him and scratched his head and told him, “If you have to go I won’t be mad. I promise I won’t be mad”. There was just an understanding that he wasn’t going to make it out this time. This was the one. At the moment, I wasn’t recognizing that I had quite literally been saying that for the last couple of weeks, even just days before. This will have been the fifth time that he blocked in this way. He was 12 years old. Already on prescription food. And yet, here we were, in the middle of the night, staring at each other, knowing.

The next morning I called the vet about getting him an MRI, I suppose I was being optimistic at the very least but I was still riddled with anxiety about what was going to happen. I sat and I waited and I watched him try. Try to drink, try to walk, try to pretend like he wasn’t in pain. After a couple hours with no answer I decided that I had to take him to the vet, so I packed him up and I took him to the emergency room. When we got there I explained the situation— if you’ve never had a cat with urinary blockages then you’ve likely never seen a desk full of vet techs freeze when you say, “he gets urinary crystals”. Their eyes get wider and they always pulls out a walkie-talkie or jump onto an intercom. It is, in fact, always that serious, which is why McFly surviving 4 blockages is no small feat.

I explained the situation to the triage nurse and she took him away. By the time the doctor came out to meet us she suggested that we go into a separate room to talk about what’s going on with McFly. Before she said anything I had told her that I was essentially coming to them for a second opinion and ultimately, if there’s nothing that they could do that would guarantee he would be okay, I did not want him to suffer for a single moment longer. She understood, she nodded, and she seemed somewhat relieved by my realistic expectations. Then she went on to say that he looked a little dull, which I agreed, and that he was in visible pain, which I agreed. They had given him some pain meds so he could be some version of comfortable, but ultimately she looked at me and said, “'I don’t know that there’s much we could do”. And that was it. The news that I didn’t want to hear, but I needed to hear. As though I needed permission to take away his suffering. And so we did.

A tech came to take us to a separate room, on the far side of the office. We walked back into a hallway, through a door, and there were four more doors in a smaller hallway. I noticed immediately that it was quieter back there, they must have been soundproof. We walked into a warm, dim lit room with the couch. On one side table there were Hershey kisses for the dogs and Churus for the cats. On the other side table to my right, there was a journal for writing final thoughts and dedications to your pet. Before I could really take everything in, they brought McFly into the room. He was bundled up in a couple of thick fleece blankets, his favorite kind, and he had an IV coming out of his leg. He was a bit more spry, wanting to get off my lap and explore, a sight that would have made anyone have a change of heart if I didn’t know that it was obviously because of the pain meds. He wasn’t in pain so it was time to go back to hiding that he ever was. We sat with him for several minutes, eulogizing him while he could still hear our love. I pet his head and scratched under his chin, recognizing how bony he had become. At some point during this I started to internalize that this was not an overnight thing, this had been happening for a while, and because cats love to hide their ailments, I had no idea. Especially for a cat like McFly, one who is so adept at hiding his entire body— shout out to being a black cat— on top of understanding, and not necessarily enjoying going to the vet, I shouldn’t have been surprised and honestly I don’t think I was.

After 5 or 10 minutes we pressed the button to let the doctor know that we were ready. She came in, described the process, and with zero hesitation (which I deeply appreciated) she pushed the meds that would allow him to fall asleep. Beforehand she said this may take a few minutes but his head dropped almost immediately. He was exhausted. The pain wasn’t allowing him to sleep or eat, it was nothing for him to close his eyes for a much needed nap. After that, she pushed the meds to stop his heart— and he was gone, I had never felt him so limp until that moment. I pet his head, no purring. I held he paws in my hand and he didn’t lightly grab me back. I played with his tail and received no irritated tail flicks. I found myself holding him simply to try and remember how his weight felt in my lap—his favorite spot. But eventually, you have to leave the room. You have to go home. You have to breathe in your new reality. So I wrote him a dedication the journal provided and we left.

McFly was nothing short of my best friend. He was my contraband cat that I got as an 18-year-old in college. My roommates and I heard about a stray who had kittens in the house of a classmate and went to check it out. I didn’t intend on getting a cat. I tagged along for fun. But, at some point, whilst 3 little kittens were playing with the laces on my boots, one crawled on to my shoulder. I laughed and put it on the ground, recognizing it was the only one of the bunch that was fully black. Without hesitation, the kitten crawled right back up the couch and onto my shoulder. I was sold. A week later, I would be told that my childhood dog, Lucy, was put down. That little kitten stayed with me all weekend, on my shoulder, while I grieved in my dark college dorm. And thus, the Age of McFly began.

For twelve years, McFly would be my own personal shadow. He was smart, funny, and the friendliest guy you’d ever meet. I routinely told people he could be a Wal-Mart greeter with how eager he was to meet new friends, especially other cats. Unfortunately for him, most were scared of him. He was a big boy after all— long, kind of stocky, and 15lbs. The only cat who ever grew to love him was his younger sister, Uhura, we got her as a kitten when McFly was 6 years old. If I was McFly’s favorite, she was an extremely close second.

McFly spent the better part of his life yelling at me, for anything. Food, treats, attention, play, snuggles, and his favorite, going outside. Over the years I’ve bought him multiple treat puzzles to keep his brain occupied. I was always trying to think of new ways of enrichment. Just because he was a cat doesn’t mean he didn’t need enrichment. He loved the sunshine on his fur, which I loved because it brought out the beautiful red tones that it had. Later in life, when he could be trusted, he would join me outside. Wherever we lived, if there was a space for him out there, he demanded to be let out. Our latest place has a large front porch as well as a yard. He adored it. If I let him he’d lounge out there all day, watching birds and munching blades of grass.

The only thing McFly wasn’t allowed to do was go out on our balcony. When we moved, I figured it’d be a nice way to let him outside without having to watch him like a hawk. Afterall, he wouldn’t jump from the balcony, right? WRONG. The very first time I let him step foot out there he revved up to leap and fall 8 feet to the ground. Luckily for his ankles, I foiled that plan before he could even reach the edge. I don’t think he ever forgave me for that.

When I walked out of that room and down the hall, I was suddenly faced with a parade of people who knew. As I passed the strangers in the waiting room, empty cat carrier in tow, I could hear them whisper, “Aw” and “What a shame”. I held my breath until I got outside, trying my best to avoid eye contact. When I met my brother outside he gave me a big hug and I cried again. I thanked him for being there and we parted ways. My partner drove us home, probably best I sob from the passenger seat.

Nothing in the world was going to prepare me to be able to walk into my house and know he wasn’t going to be there. For twelve years, I would come home and he was the first face I saw, eyes bright and engaging. The first sound I heard as he let out an inquisitive “can I go outside?” meow. And yet here I was, pulling up to my home, 12 years and 28 days after finding out about the death of Lucy, only to be grieving the same being who helped me get through her passing. The only thing I was focused on was remembering to breathe as I unlocked the front door and walked inside. But just as I did, I heard a long creak, like something just opened. The cats heard and reacted. I wandered through the house until I got to the kitchen. The backdoor that leads to the balcony was wide open. Which is weird, because it was locked.

I guess someone wanted to go outside.

Hold on to your butts, it’s only a matter of time.