Fun fact: Cats love their owners just as much as dogs do; they just don’t show it in the same ways.
“Muffins is at your house and safe,” read the text from my friend, Nikki, which came along with a picture of an orange Tabby perched on one of my kitchen chairs.
“Great,” I thought to myself. “I can only imagine how this is going to go.”
Muffins had belonged to Nikki’s horrible neighbor, who left him outside, barely giving him food or water. The woman had recently moved away, leaving Muffins to wander the neighborhood to completely fend for himself. My husband had a co-worker who was looking to adopt a cat, but couldn’t take him in for a few weeks, so we agreed to foster him in the meantime.
It’s not that I didn’t feel bad for the little guy. I wanted him to find a good home. But never having owned a cat in my life, I really didn’t see this going well. I didn’t dislike cats, but I couldn’t imagine ever bonding with one like I could a dog. They all just seemed so arrogant and aloof.
To top it all off, I had still never gotten over losing Berkeley, my beloved dog who had died almost a year earlier.
When Berkeley was diagnosed with cancer at not quite six years old, the veterinarian told us it was too aggressive to cure. Instead of allowing myself to be consumed with sadness, I spent the next four months using all my energy to make Berkeley’s life as wonderful as possible, taking her on countless trips to the dog park and the ice-cream stand. But once the cancer became too much for her and we had to say goodbye to our sweet girl, I suddenly had nothing to do with my grief anymore. I had spent most of the year in a deep depression, angry that she was taken so soon and convinced I had somehow failed her. I would dream of her regularly, and the feel of her downy fur under my fingers always felt so real, that waking up was always a disappointment.
By the time I got home from work the day Nikki dropped off Muffins, he had taken to hiding behind one of the living room chairs. Our dog, Rain, took somewhat of an interest in our new houseguest, but curiosity quickly turned to fear after too many claws-out swats to her nose when she would try to sniff around the chair.
Muffins eventually emerged into the living room. I can’t say he was a holy terror, but this cat meowed incessantly, constantly messed up the blinds on our windows and didn’t seem to understand that my laptop wasn’t meant to be walked across.
Two weeks went by, and we learned that my husband’s co-worker was interested in a female cat only. A couple of other leads on a home for Muffins also fell through. By this time, Rain’s anxiety caused by this feisty feline was making her physically ill. She had always been a skittish dog, and the fear of constantly wondering if Muffins was waiting around the corner, ready to attack, was taking its toll.
This cat had to go.
Even though I wanted Muffins out of my house in the worst way, I wasn’t heartless. I wouldn’t take him to the pound or turn him out on the street like his awful first owner, but I was exhausting all efforts by contacting every animal-rescue group in the area, desperately trying to rehome him.
In the meantime, I took Rain to the veterinarian to see if there were any solutions to calm her nerves.
“We are fostering this cat right now until we can find him a home,” I told the vet, trying to explain why Rain was so out of sorts.
“Sweetie, he already has a home,” the kindly vet responded gently.
“Oh, no,” I said. “Absolutely not.”
Over the next week, the anxiety medicine prescribed by the vet did seem to help. Rain also started to assert herself, letting out a firm growl whenever Muffins would overstep his bounds.
With Rain steadily turning back into her old self, I guess I began to relax, too. Muffins really wasn’t so bad. In fact, he was pretty adorable to watch while he was rolling around on his back with his paws tangling around the string attached to his furry toy mouse. And I have to admit I enjoyed it when he would fall asleep on my chest in the evening when my husband and I were watching television. I couldn’t exactly say I loved him, but I had learned to like the little guy.
A few weeks later, Berkeley appeared again in my dreams. Somehow, even in this dream state, I knew it was just a temporary visit. I gathered her in my arms and buried my face in her fur.
“I’m not letting you go, baby,” I cried. “Mommy is right here.”
When I woke up the next morning, I found Muffins nestled in my arms, looking up at me with his big green eyes. I wiped away my tears and rubbed the top of his head as he purred with contentment.
“Hey, little guy,” I whispered. “Mommy is right here.”
After that morning, I found I could think of Berkeley and smile instead of cry. Her life may have been short, but it was full of love — something that Muffins’ life had lacked for so long.
No one could ever replace Berkeley or change what she meant to me, but I finally realized the same goes for Muffins.
A few months later, when I took Muffins to the vet for some shots, I happily told the doctor that he was right.
This sweet little kitty has found a home.
~Emily Canning-Dean
