Tippy's Timeline Wasn't Mine

I adopted Tippy from a local animal shelter as a barn cat.

If you've never heard of a barn cat, they're usually feral cats that aren't interested in becoming house pets. They live outside, patrol barns and outbuildings, and form relationships with the people who care for them—on their own terms.

Tippy was one of those cats.

Sweet.

Gentle.

And absolutely determined to make his own decisions.

Over the years, we slowly became friends.

First, he let me feed him.

Then, after what felt like forever, he let me pet him.

A few years later...

He allowed me to pick him up.

I remember thinking,

"We're making progress!"

Naturally, I decided I knew what was best for him.

"I have a warm house."

"I have cozy cat beds."

"I have food."

"I have treats."

"What cat wouldn't want this?"

Apparently...

Tippy.

I tried everything.

Treats.

Food.

Soft beds.

Gentle encouragement.

Persuasive speeches.

I may have even explained to him how wonderful indoor plumbing is.

Nothing.

He would look at me as if to say,

"That's adorable, Leia."

"But no."

To make matters worse, there was a huge old tomcat that regularly beat poor Tippy up.

He wasn't a fighter.

He was a sweetheart.

One time, the tomcat punctured Tippy's foot badly enough that I had to take him to the veterinarian.

Surely now, I thought, he'll understand that living indoors is the better option.

Nope.

Back outside he'd go.

Year after year, I kept trying to rescue a cat who apparently didn't believe he needed rescuing.

Finally, after seven years, I gave up.

Not because I stopped loving him.

Because I finally realized I couldn't love him into becoming someone he wasn't.

I remember saying,

"Okay, Tippy Boy..."

"You do you."

And then...

Almost as if he'd been waiting for me to stop trying...

He walked into the house.

Not dramatically.

Not permanently.

Just...

Curiously.

For a while, he'd come in for a few minutes.

Then he'd leave.

A little while later, he'd stay longer.

Before I knew it, Tippy had quietly decided that maybe this house wasn't such a bad place after all.

Today, that same independent barn cat sleeps on my pillow every night.

He still goes outside whenever he wants.

He still makes his own decisions.

He's simply chosen to make our home part of his world.

What Tippy Taught Me

For seven years, I thought I was being patient with Tippy.

Looking back, I'm not entirely sure Tippy would agree.

I had decided what the happy ending should look like.

Tippy would come inside.

He would discover the warm beds.

He would recognize the obvious superiority of indoor living.

He would live happily ever after.

Preferably immediately.

There was only one problem.

It wasn't my life.

Tippy taught me that loving another being doesn't give me ownership of their journey.

I could offer him safety.

I could feed him.

I could care for him when he was injured.

I could open my home.

What I couldn't do was decide when—or whether—he should walk through the door.

That belonged to him.

And this lesson reaches far beyond animals.

How often do we see exactly what someone else should do?

Leave the relationship.

Take the opportunity.

Get help.

Slow down.

Move forward.

Heal.

Change.

Come inside the damn house.

Sometimes we may even be right.

But being right doesn't make the timeline ours.

That's something I've had to learn in my relationship with myself, too.

There have been things I've understood intellectually long before I was actually ready to live them.

I could see the open door.

I just wasn't ready to walk through it.

Maybe that's why Tippy's lesson means even more to me now.

Love doesn't require another being to change on our schedule.

Love can remain present without pushing.

It can offer without demanding.

It can leave the door open without standing in the doorway yelling instructions.

And sometimes, when we finally stop pulling...

something beautiful happens.

They choose.

Tippy eventually chose the house.

But more importantly, he chose it for himself.

I think that's why he could finally stay.

You May Be Wondering...

How do I know when to stop trying and simply trust?

I don't think giving up and letting go are the same thing.

Letting go doesn't mean we stop caring.

We can continue to offer support.

We can remain available.

We can keep the door open.

What we release is our insistence that we know when, how, or whether another being should walk through it.

That can be incredibly difficult when we love someone and believe we know what would make things better.

Tippy taught me that another being's no doesn't necessarily mean never.

Sometimes it simply means:

Not yet.

And sometimes the most loving thing we can do is respect that answer.

Tippy came inside only after I stopped trying to pull him through the door.

Seven years later.

Apparently, the boy had a timeline.

It just wasn't mine.

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