An Adoption Story

We arrived at the animal shelter on a damp late September day. There was a substantial chill in the air and I was glad I had brought a scarf to wrap around my head as we ducked down the street towards the square brick building, my hopeful outlook completely at odds with the weather, the traffic, and the horrid parking situation. We felt lucky we’d found a parking space only two blocks away, and that the rain was holding steady at an annoying, freezing drizzle. The empty waiting room increased my optimism. Last weekend, the shelter had been packed, and there were no kittens to be had.

My cat coach smiled at me and asked, “Are you ready to take a look?” There was no point in filling out the paperwork if there were no kittens. I grinned like an idiot and nodded, yes, nervous and excited at the same time. My hands were balled into fists in the pockets of my bomber jacket. I felt like I was auditioning for a leading role and I really, really wanted to get the part. My friend opened the metal door and held it for me, and I walked into the holding room and quickly surveyed the cages, mostly empty. There were a few dogs in that state of perpetual canine agitation, but there didn’t seem to be any kittens. Then, as I turned to look at the row of cages sharing the wall with the door, I saw her.

She was in the second cage from the door. Her mom was curled up sleeping in the back; her tortoise-striped fur gently rose and fell with her calm breaths. The little one was much lighter, her stripes the color of champagne and the palest peach, and she seemed impossibly small. I lowered myself to get a better look at her, and she reached a paw out towards me with a tiny “Mew.” I was smitten.

I don’t think she weighed much more than a pound, the agile, spunky puffball I lifted out of the cage. Her mom never even twitched a whisker, and the little one didn’t miss a beat, either, using her deceptively lethal claws to climb all over me. Upon inspection, my little lovely had fleas, and ear mites, too, but they did not deter me. I packed her up in the shelter’s cardboard carry box and took her home.

She mewed the entire drive, and hissed throughout her flea bath and eardrops. We toweled her dry and then let her down to explore the house. She would choose a lap for a few minutes and then take off again, investigating new smells everywhere. She stropped her claws on the dracena, foreshadowing doom for all my plants. Already she owned the house and everything in it, including me.

At bedtime she slipped off somewhere when I was brushing my teeth. I held down my panic, knowing there was no way for her to get out, and realizing at the same time the futility of a search: already that evening she’d squeezed underneath the stereo. There were dozens of places she could hide. She’d find me if she wanted to, I reassured myself as I slid my feet into bed. Suddenly my toes hit a warm furry lump, invisible under the bedcovers. Relief washed over me as I fished her out to snuggle properly. She hadn’t been hiding at all. She had just gone to bed a little early.