“Admiral” Daniel Alfonso DiNozzo – 3/14/2010–10/7/25

Yesterday, shortly after 2:30 PM, my little shadow guardian and editing sidekick, DiNozzo, died in my arms here at home. 

The change in his health was sudden and drastic. With the help of Compassion 4 Paws, we brought him home from the ER, spent a few hours loving on him, and then we helped him head out on his final adventure. 

But he is made of stardust and even amidst our profound grief, I know he still remains. Even outside of my memories and his sudden appearances on camera (he was prone to jumping in front of my webcam), the very matter that made up his being can neither be created nor destroyed. 

He will live on throughout all of time and space, long after my memories and photos of him cease existing. While the logical and scientific parts of me know this, my heart has been ripped out of my chest at the loss of our little kitty. This is the first time I’ve lost something larger than a hamster, and the difference is profound. In my mind, all living creatures are sacred. I know some people would likely comment that while his loss is sad, he was just a pet, and I’ll be honest–that tells me more about the person thinking that thought than it says about me. 

DiNozzo was with us for sixteen years.

He saw us buy our first house. He celebrated with us when we were happy and curled up in front of the fireplace at our side when we were sad. He witnessed a flood (our condo) and made his home in four territories (homes) across two states.

He survived severe epilepsy and a bad leg, and he didn’t let it stop him from playing fetch with fuzzy balls. He talked to the bunnies in the backyard and bathed in the sun. He loved to play and lounge on my keyboard, especially when deadlines loomed over me. He was a piece of my history and story with Molli.

He was a family member. He was a piece of my heart.

We were at the no-kill shelter looking for a Gibbs (NCIS reference) but found a DiNozzo, this little black kitten who climbed his way up Molli’s jeans and exhausted by the effort, fell asleep wrapped in her hair. DiNozzo chose us.

My strongest memory of him was from our first night in our first home. This four month old kitten crawled his way up the side of the bed with his front legs until he reached me. He leapt up on my chest and settled over my heart so he could hear my heartbeat. His deep panther-like purrs rumbled through my chestbone and woke me from sleep. Satisfied that I was safe and aware of his presence, he promptly fell asleep curled up in a tight ball on my heart.

Days later, he began playing a game with me where he’d intentionally slide off the bed to see if I would catch him. He was this tiny kitten, but damned if I didn’t catch him every time. Molli said I even did it in my sleep.

In many ways, he never left my heart. When he wasn’t curled up within a paw’s reach of me, he would haunt the doorways of whatever room I sat in, playing guardian over me until he fell asleep, often upright. Sometimes at night, I would wake from sleep to see him sitting in the bedroom doorway, his eyes always watching, his lithe frame alert for any danger. Other times, I would wake to him walking up the side of my body and tapping me lightly on the cheek. I’d lift the blanket up, and he’d crawl under it to snuggle in the crook behind my knees. 

He loved people, and they were always at our house to visit him. If contractors and repair people didn’t pay tribute, he would whap them with a paw to the leg. He was more dog than cat, with a long tail that would wag when he was excited to see you. DiNozzo wasn’t very vocal, but when he was, it was more bark than meow.

When he was diagnosed with cancer, his specialists were certain that chemotherapy could gift us with more time, and it did. It gave us 3.5 glorious years where he could sleep beside us or play with string in my office when I was supposed to be writing. 

In April, a neurogenic bladder almost killed him, and when we readied ourselves to call Compassion 4 Paws for in-home euthanasia, DiNozzo responded with a firm no. Not yet. His medications suddenly worked, and he bounced back in a way that no one expected. As he always had, DiNozzo fought tooth and claw to stay with us and guard us through the night.

A friend turned this image of him into a meme, and it’s absolutely DiNozzo. He constantly wanted to be where I was, especially sitting on my laptop so I could pet him. He wanted to be wherever the people were and when the pandemic hit, the distinct lack of friends in our home impacted him as well.

Unlike April, when his body betrayed him this week, he looked at me and I knew. Everything in his eyes and body said it was time. I wasn’t ready, but he was. So we sang to him and talked to him as he drifted to sleep.

Now that he’s gone, all I want is to bury my face in his fur again, to lay my face against his chest and hear his heartbeat, and to hear his rumbling purr one last time.

Everywhere I look, I see him. In the shadowy hallway at night, on the bathroom counter for drinkies (despite having a water fountain of his own, he loved to drink from a running faucet more than anything else), and in the empty cat bed in my office. I won’t be able to hold him again, but my memories hold firm to him. Even in my profound grief, I am made better having known and cared for him.

How could I not be, having cared for stardust?

DiNozzo, dubbed Daniel Alfonso by his foster parents was born on March 10, 2010 in Plano, Texas. He is survived by his brothers-from-another-mother, O’Riley and O’Malley, and his human parents, Raven & Molligru Oak.

May his atoms return as stardust to form a galaxy where he can be the Admiral of deadlines and bunnies, and maybe someday, our stardust will find him again.