As we entered the final 48 hours with our beloved boy Magico, everything became sacred. After speaking with Michelle, the pet psychic, and making a plan for his transition, we knew we had to make this time as intentional, reverent, and full of love as possible. Magico, ever our teacher, told us he would do well leading up to his passing but he also reminded us not to be fooled. Just because he seemed okay didn’t mean he was getting better. We needed to stick to the plan we made together.
Later that day, after the call with Michelle, we sat together as a family and talked about what the next 48 hours would look like. Kathleen and I went to the store to get fish and liver, just like Magico asked for. Jon stayed home, tuning his African harp, the ngoni, to play songs for our sweet boy. When we returned, our Chinese medicine doctor Kelly arrived. She had helped Magico tremendously in the past with acupuncture and herbs. We were grateful to keep this appointment.
Kelly was as tender and loving as always. She approached Magico with so much respect, never overwhelming him, just enough presence to support his body and spirit to begin the unwinding. She said his energy felt different than before. He was really starting to let go. It was becoming clear to all of us.
We talked about what his ceremony might look like. Kelly offered the most beautiful reminder: hold the highest frequency of love during his transition. That love could become a bridge to the light. She said as he received the medicine from the vet, if we were in the frequency of celebration and love, he could use that love and energy to launch right to Source. That stuck with me. It changed everything. We vowed to do just that. And we did.
We thanked Kelly, and before she left, she told us she'd be lighting a candle for him the morning of his passing. That meant so much. Kathleen and I also made a post to our community, asking people to light a candle from 8:30 to 9:30 a.m. Mountain Time on July 5th. That was to many of you. The response was overwhelming. Friends, family, even strangers who had fallen in love with him through our posts reached out. Two of our dear friends in Portugal made a bouquet from plants of the land and offered it with cornmeal to the ocean, such a perfect tribute for our Baja cat.
That night, we ordered comfort food, burgers and fries had a little feast under the big, beautiful, blooming linden tree in our front yard, Magico’s favorite spot to rest. The blossoms were gently falling, and the air was fragrant with their sweetness. We laid out a blanket, shared stories, and ate while Magico slowly wandered the yard. He could only go a few feet at a time before needing to lie down. Jon said he’d never seen him move that slowly.
We were trying to play with him and talk to him as usual, but he was pulling away. He didn’t want to be touched. He was sitting facing away from us. And when we would get close, he would walk away, which was very out of character for this cuddly love bug. He was beginning to separate so we went on a family walk to give him space.
Upon returning from the walk, we sat on the back porch where we found the boy. As we talked to him in the grass, two white doves suddenly appeared, flying in tandem, and landed right on the edge of our back deck, just a few feet away. They looked directly at us, cooed gently a few times, and then, just as gracefully, flew off into the sky. We were stunned. We all saw them. We all felt it. It was a sign of peace, of love, of the great mystery at work. It felt like the veil parted. Like some kind of deep knowing had arrived. And we knew. Magico was being held. We were being held. It awoke a deep need to immediately go write my boy a farewell letter. As I wrote, the pen in my hand had never moved so fast in my life.
Later, once we all took a moment of solo time to process, we gathered in the house and watched videos of him from the day he first showed up on our porch in Baja. We laughed. We cried. We made a shared album of over 2,500 photos and videos of our sweet boy’s life. He still wasn’t engaging with us like normal during this time, but he stayed close by in the room to be near us.
At one point during a sweet video of him, he crawled onto my lap and snuggled. And later, while Kathleen played guitar in the sunroom, he curled into the bend of my knees just like he always had. Those little bits of sweetness were still coming through as we celebrated him. As we neared the end of the night, it was time to read him the letter I wrote, my final farewell. As I fully wept, I told him everything again, even though I’d said it a million times before. I told him how much I love him. That he was my baby. That he changed my life forever. I poured my heart out.
As the night came to a close, Jon picked him up and brought him upstairs for bed. He laid down with us while we got ready for sleep. Then, true to form, he slipped outside. We whispered into the night, "Please come back. Just one more night of snuggles."
And he listened!
A few hours later, I heard the sound of his meow and his little paws on the floor. He climbed into bed, made his biscuits next to Jon, and curled up. It was perfect. Feeling the comfort of him by our side finally allowed for a moment of sleep.
Before sunrise, he quietly left again without us knowing. And then suddenly - BOOM. The loudest crash. Screeching tires. It jolted us awake. We ran outside in our underwear, terrified. We feared the worst. Was it Magico? Was it our van?
No. A car had crashed into our neighbor’s mailbox. Everyone was okay. But it was a wild, jarring moment. Like a rip in reality.
Back inside, we tried to sleep. But Jon kept waking with heart pain. He said it felt like he was channeling Magico’s feelings. Eventually, I said, "I want to whistle for him." Jon said, "I was just about to ask you to. There's nothing quite like his mama's whistle to bring him home."
We stepped into the garden. I whistled once, and there he was. He appeared like magic from behind a garden bed. Sweet and cuddly and present. It felt like he’d moved through his own process and was ready to be with us again for these final hours. We fed him and spoke sweetly to him, sharing about the day ahead.
As 8:30 in the morning approached, we began to prep our home for the ceremony. We built an altar inside and showed it to him but he didn’t want to be in the house. Every time we picked him up to bring him in, he meowed at the door to go back out. We heard the message. So we moved the altar. We brought everything into the garden: the flowers, the pink cloth for his soul to pass through, his favorite sheepskin rug, and many other sacred items. The sun rose. We dressed in white. We prepared to celebrate his life and help him transition sweetly.
I told him what was going to happen, step by step. I told him, "In a few hours, my love, I will give you an opioid from the vet to help ease the pain. Then an hour later, a woman is going to come. She’s going to give you medicine that will help you go to sleep. And then another medicine that will stop your heart. It will be gentle. We’ll be with you the whole time, helping you cross. Then you will be free."
When it was time to give him the first medicine, the opioid, something extraordinary happened. He started running, leaping fences, climbing the Linden tree and crouching down as if he were hunting. It was like he was alive again. But we knew the end was still close.
Jon and I both felt the sensations of Mágicos energy in our body too. Almost having opioid sensations ourselves. Jon said his chest pain subsided and his vision became very lucid. I started seeing rainbows and feeling much more relaxed. It was like we were all connected in this otherworldly experience.
Shortly before the ceremony started, we called our other sister, Margaret and my parents via zoom. When the vet arrived, she was kind and soft. She explained everything, and we shared the plan with him again. But Magico wasn’t ready to sit still. He kept trying to jump the fence. Jon followed him gently, holding space, making sure he had the freedom he asked for. We balanced letting him be free with keeping him close by, so he could really soak in his final moments.
Eventually, we gathered in the garden. The vet told us, "This sedative will be the last time he is fully conscious. If there’s anything you want to say, now is the time."
Jon was immediately called to read his beautiful farewell letter to him. As I fed him a little treat, Jon, his poppa, shared his love for Magico through endless tears. My mom, Tracy, then read hers. Sweetly recounting her love and wishing he had just one more day with our family. We were all crying, but holding the frequency of love. We were singing. We were loving him through it all. Butterflies came. The birds were present. Honey and bumble bees surrounded us in the flowers. Dragonflies floated by. Even earwigs made an appearance. All to celebrate his life and help his soul transcend.
Magico flinched with the first shot, meowed, and then began to settle. He jumped toward the fence one last time and Jon sweetly embraced him and brought him back to me. He began to soften in my arms as the sedative kicked in.
We sang his song, the Magico song. I asked everyone to remove their hands from him as he started to leave his body. I held him, and a few moments later, passed him to Jon. Just before the hand-off, he lifted his head and stared into Jon’s eyes, then became very heavy. As soon as he settled onto Jon’s shoulder, he let out one last little meow. It felt like a tender, sweet, goodbye.
We then moved to the altar space and the three of us sat on the sheepskin rug. When the final medicine was administered, I looked to the sky. I felt him leave immediately. I also felt him land on my right shoulder and whisper, "I’m staying right here with you, mama." And then he became everything.
He returned to Source, to God, to Universal Love. We held him in the space telling him how much we loved him and to go to the brightest light he could find. That he was doing a good job, to keep going, and that he was finally free of his physical body’s suffering.
After a while, we signaled to the vet that she could go. She was incredibly respectful of the entire process and said, “Thank you all for allowing me to be part of this. It was the most beautiful passing I have ever witnessed. I’ll remember this transition forever.” We thanked her deeply and hung up with my family on the video call.
We took his body back inside and laid him on his sheepskin. We brought in the alter in full and began to sing to him. We cried. We meditated. We encouraged his soul toward the light. And then, we wrapped him in a Peruvian mothers blanket tapestry. Curled him into his favorite little cinnamon roll pose. And covered him in flowers.
Within a few hours his body began to stiffen. We saw the changes of death. We saw his soul leave his beautiful green eyes as they turned grey and slowly started to dry out. This entire experience was one of the most powerful spiritual moments of our lives.
Later that evening, we brought him to Denver to be water-cremated. A kind man, the owner of Water Bridge Aquamation, met us there. It was a gentle and beautiful hand off of his body. We will receive his remains soon to give him fully back to the Earth, as Magico requested.
Since the day of his crossing, he’s been everywhere: rainbows, shadows, whispers. We still talk to him every day. He is with us and we are with him. He’s here. He’s always here. He was, and still is, our greatest teacher of love. And we will love him forever. More tomorrow…
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