Mr. Boots

For many years, I volunteered at our local animal shelter.

Every Wednesday afternoon, I'd pick up my granddaughter after school, and we'd drive straight there. We only had about an hour before the shelter closed, but those hours became some of my favorite memories with her.

We both love animals with our whole hearts, and it felt like such a gift to teach her compassion by simply spending time with the animals who needed it most.

My favorite stop was always the special room for the incontinent cats.

Now, let me paint you a picture.

It's a good thing this is a website and not scratch-and-sniff because when I tell you that room smelled like urine and poop...I mean it. It was eye-watering. Six incontinent cats sharing one room is about as glamorous as it sounds.

But none of that mattered to my favorite cat, Mr. Boots.

The moment I walked through the door, he'd come waddling over to greet me. Every single time.

I'd scoop him into my lap and sing the silly little "Mr. Boots" song I'd made up just for him while my granddaughter rolled her eyes in that wonderfully dramatic way only granddaughters can.

We had our routine.

Mr. Boots would purr.

I'd sing.

Sometimes he'd leave me an unexpected little poop nugget as a souvenir.

And somehow...

He was still my favorite cat in the whole shelter.

One day I learned something that stopped me in my tracks.

Mr. Boots had been living at the shelter for eleven years.

Not one year.

Eleven.

This sweet old gentleman had spent over a decade waiting for someone to choose him.

And yet...

If you had asked Mr. Boots, I don't think he would have described himself as waiting at all.

He wasn't bitter.

He wasn't shut down.

He wasn't angry at the world.

He wasn't withholding his affection until life became fair.

He greeted every visitor like they were the best part of his day.

He loved without hesitation.

He purred with his whole heart.

He found joy exactly where he was.

Mr. Boots didn't waste today because yesterday had been hard.

And he didn't postpone happiness until tomorrow looked different.

He simply lived.

What Mr. Boots Taught Me

I used to think happiness arrived when our circumstances finally lined up the way we wanted.

Mr. Boots showed me something entirely different.

Our circumstances matter.

Pain is real.

Loss is real.

Waiting is real.

But somewhere inside every one of us lives the ability to choose how we meet this moment.

Mr. Boots couldn't change the fact that he lived in a shelter.

He couldn't change his aging body.

He couldn't change his incontinence.

But every day he chose to greet the world with love instead of resentment.

One of the recurring messages in my automatic writing has been that love is not something we wait to feel—it is something we choose to embody. Mr. Boots lived that truth better than many humans I know.

He reminded me that joy isn't always found in changing our circumstances.

Sometimes it's found in changing the way we meet them.

You May Be Wondering...

Can animals really choose joy?

I don't know exactly how they experience the world, but I do know what I witnessed.

Mr. Boots never seemed defined by what had happened to him.

He didn't measure each day by what was missing.

He met each new day—and each new person—with openness, affection, and trust.

Perhaps that is one of the greatest gifts our animal companions offer us. They gently remind us that while we can't always choose our circumstances, we can choose how we love within them.

May you see the world through the eyes of love, remembering that we are all part of one living, sacred whole.