Fun fact: Cats sleep up to sixteen hours a day, but their brains still alert them to sounds and smells most of the time they’re asleep to warn them of danger.
We met at the Leeds Grenville SPCA. From the moment my family walked through the door, the brown Tabby watched us calmly but intently with her hazel eyes. The fur around her face was fluffed almost imperceptibly, giving her a kitten-like appearance, and her front paws were extended in our direction. They stopped just short of the door of her cage, as if she didn’t want to seem too eager.
There were other cats that were less concerned about seeming needy. Many rose to their feet as we entered the small section of the Leeds Grenville SPCA, meowing in every pitch imaginable.
More than one cat strained a lean furry arm in our direction as we passed, hoping to loop the tips of his claws into a sleeve or arm to capture our attention. My husband and I stayed just out of reach, not out of cruelty, but because our hearts are too easily swayed. We were here to find the best fit for our little family of three.
In my heart, however, I think I already knew which one was the right cat.
Portia was quiet. She watched us with partially closed eyes, as if she had already staked her claim.
“Take your time,” her expression seemed to say. “In the end, I know it’s going to be me.”
As I neared her cage, one paw extended. There was no desperation, no ulterior motive, only a gesture that seemed to say, “Hello, at last.”
That appendage quickly retracted when the silver Tabby housed below reached up and swatted her. Portia pulled back, giving me what looked like a hurt expression while still relaying that she knew she was “The One.”
“Aw, that was sad,” my husband said.
“I know!” I exclaimed. “You should pick her up and make her feel better.”
Portia slid into his arms. As he pulled her close to his chest, she maneuvered so that her belly was exposed. Craning her neck, she touched her nose to his.
My husband was smitten. We were bringing home a cat that day.
After a day or two of settling in, Portia became a sort of small and fluffy nanny to my toddler. She would travel from room to room with us during the day, usually staying closest to my son. She wanted to sit where he sat, look out the windows from which he peered, and make valiant attempts to share (steal) whatever he was eating. At night, she would sprawl onto his lap during story time. We dubbed her “Guardian Kitten” for the way she always wanted to be where he was, watching over him as if he were her own.
Then, one day, she saved his life.
I was raking leaves while my child delighted in disturbing the piles. Portia was dozing on the porch, the tip of her tail periodically twitching, and her ears sometimes shifting toward the sound of our voices. Aside from these, she seemed gone to the world, lost in the lazy, dreamy repose that is best achieved on a fall day that is closer to the end of summer than the beginning of winter.
From down the street, a frantic voice cried, “No! Come back here!”
The phrase was repeated and the volume increased as the speaker drew closer. The Golden Retriever reached my property first.
It wasn’t a bad dog. In the split second that it reached and then leaped over the low fence surrounding the front yard, I ascertained that it was a young one, and not well-trained. It veered toward my son with boundless energy and body language that expressed that it wanted to play.
“Puppy!” my son exclaimed, spreading his arms apart in a welcoming gesture. Unlike me, he was oblivious to the fact that this dog would, at the very least, knock him down with its uncontained enthusiasm.
And I wasn’t going to be able to close the space between us in time.
A demonic scream erupted behind me, as Portia flew from the porch in a blur of brown and black stripes, landing between the dog and child. Compared to the fully grown dog, Portia was tiny, but her outrage overcompensated for that. Every hair on her body was raised. Her back was arched and her lips were drawn back to reveal sharp teeth.
She yowled again, claws extended as one paw exploded outward and struck the dog’s nose. It yelped and took a step back. Once more she closed the gap, claws ready to slice. Hissing, growling, and striking, she drove the Retriever out of the yard. It gave me time to step in front of my child and contemplate how to protect both him and Portia should the dog retaliate.
It didn’t. The owners arrived and apologized profusely while taking hold of their errant pet’s collar before returning home. Portia watched with disdainful eyes until they rounded another corner and disappeared. With a bored glance in my direction, she returned to napping on the porch.
I still think often and fondly of the Guardian Kitten. Her certainty toward us and the seamless way she became a part of our family encouraged me to feel as if there is a kind of destiny to this existence. She was definitely beyond compare.
~Ligaya Flor
