By the time I was born, my family had three cats. Bert and Ernie were
brothers, while Twitso was my mom’s old cat from before my parents
were married. As a child, I was terrified of Twitso, and I wasn’t the only
one. My brother shared my terror of our cat, and when friends came
over, the infamous tales of Twitso ensured that they, too, would refuse
to go near our cat.

For the most part, we had good reason to be afraid of Twitso. While,
according to my mom, she was kind as a kitten, old age made her a grumpy
and all around mean-spirited cat. Despite my best attempts to pet her, she
did not appreciate them and more than once I ran away with the shell of a
claw imbedded in the back of my hand.

She would tolerate me petting her head, but if I ever tried to pet her
back, she would whirl around with a hiss and try to scratch my outstretched
hand. Yet despite all the scratches, she was still my cat and a part of the
family, and I loved her.

It was when I was in second grade that she died. I stayed home from
school with strep throat that day and said goodbye to Twitso before my dad
took her in the cat carrier to put her down. In her sickness, she couldn’t get
the energy to attack my hand while I petted her back for the first and last
time. When my dad returned from the vet a while later, the cat carrier was
empty. Twitso was dead.

Two days later, we were driving to Big White to go skiing with our
extended family. As I sat in the car and looked out the window into the starry
night, I saw what I now know to be a satellite. At the time, I had no idea that
satellites could be seen by naked eye from the surface of the Earth and
imagined it was Twitso, staying with us even after death.