As I was saging my house—clearing out any stale energy, anything negative that might have wandered in with a purchase, a person, a grocery bag, whatever—I started thinking about Bill Wilson.
My cat.
My tiny, furry, live-in spiritual security system.
Bill has the keenest sense of energy. And yes, I think cats in general have this ability, but Bill? Bill is on another level. He notices everything. He senses everything. And most importantly, he reports it.
Bill Wilson does not suffer energetic disturbances in silence. He will file a complaint.
Immediately.
He has also been a vegan cat for the past couple of years—although we have recently experienced what I will refer to as The Kibble Fiasco, so a little meat has temporarily entered the chat. But generally speaking, Bill has lived a pretty plant-based existence, and in my completely unscientific opinion, perhaps this has made him especially clearheaded.
Whatever the reason, that cat knows when something is off.
One Sunday, I went to the farmers market and bought him this little toy: a silvervine stick with a hard catnip ball on top. It looked like a tiny cat lollipop.
Adorable.
I brought it home with the rest of my farmers market treasures, tossed it onto the floor, and basically said, “Look, Bill! Your toy!”
Then I went about my business. Laundry. Cleaning. Whatever.
And Bill started talking.
Not just meowing. Talking.
Every noise available in the feline vocabulary was coming out of this animal. Meows. Chirps. Complaints. Announcements. Possibly obscenities. He was spitting words at me a mile a minute.
Finally, I was like, “WHAT, BILL?”
Something was clearly bothering him. So naturally, I saged the house.
I cleared everything out, brought in some good energy, and Bill seemed better.
For approximately five minutes.
Then we were back in the living room, and he started again. Talking. Staring at me. Following me. Looking at me like:
Mom. Come on. Figure it out.
This cat was not going to rest until I located whatever was bothering him.
And finally, he showed me.
He walked over to the little silvervine lollipop from the farmers market and sat beside it. Then he looked at it.
His hair stood up. His whole body reacted.
And he bolted.
I went, “OH MY GOD. IT’S THE LOLLIPOP.”
I picked that thing up, marched it straight outside, and threw it in the trash. Then I came back inside, saged the area where it had been sitting, and—
Bill was fine.
Completely fine.
Now, who knows what he was sensing? Maybe there was some smell on it I couldn’t detect. Maybe, because it came from a little trailer filled with dried animal treats—minnows and other things—he was smelling something that registered completely differently to him.
Or maybe Bill Wilson knew something I didn’t.
Either way, the cat wanted that thing out of his house.
And I listened.
He has done this with people, too.
There was someone I once considered a friend who turned out not to be the person I believed he was. Whenever this person came over, Bill would disappear.
Gone. Wouldn’t even peek his little head out.
Now, Bill isn’t exactly the mayor of Charleston. He doesn’t greet every visitor at the door with a handshake. He’s cautious with people.
But lately, he’s been coming out more.
My friend Brett comes over, and Bill will walk around. He’ll pop out. He’ll watch him. He’ll actually exist in the same room with another human being.
At this rate, Brett might even be granted touching privileges one day.
But with certain people? Absolutely not.
And I notice that.
Because I think animals pick up on things we miss. Whether you call it scent, instinct, body language, nervous-system cues, energy, aura—or some combination of all of it—they are paying attention.
They aren’t listening to somebody explain who they are. They’re feeling who they are.
And Bill does the same thing when I come home.
I once came back from an AA meeting where I’d hugged several people. Those rooms can hold every emotion imaginable—grief, relief, fear, hope, desperation, joy, anger, gratitude, heartbreak. Human beings walking through enormous things together.
I walked through my front door, and Bill came toward me.
Stopped. Looked me up and down. Got a little closer.
And darted away.
The message was very clear:
Nope. You’ve got something on you, girl. Handle that first.
So now I sage myself sometimes when I come home.
A friend even suggested putting sage essential oil in a little spray bottle, diluted appropriately, so I could have a quick little ritual when I walk through the door.
Brilliant.
And whether what I’m clearing is literal energy, my own mental residue from the day, or simply giving myself a moment to reset, I love the ritual.
It calms me. It reconnects me.
It reminds me that when I enter my home, I get to decide what I carry inside with me—and what stays at the door.
And apparently, if I forget, I have Bill Wilson.
Head of Household Energetics. Director of Spiritual Security. Chief Sage Officer.
Because sometimes I’ll walk through the door, and Bill takes one look at me like:
Mom. I don’t know where you’ve been, who you’ve hugged, or what was happening at that grocery store, but you’ve brought some weird shit into this house. Sage your feet.
And you know what? I listen to the cat.
Because animals are extraordinary. They notice storms before we do. They hear things we can’t hear. They smell things we can’t smell. They respond to tiny shifts in us that we don’t even realize we’re making.
And sometimes I think animals remind us how much information we’re constantly receiving when we’re quiet enough to notice it.
Bill notices.
Bill always notices.
So tonight, the house is saged, the energy feels light, Bill Wilson has completed his inspection, and all is well.
It has been a beautiful day. I am blessed to be here on Earth.
And I hope your party was as good as mine today.
Good vibes only. Bill is monitoring the premises.
