My family had a series of pets go in and out of house over the years. Buttons was my Mom's cat, a mane coon. She never forgave my Mom for marrying Dad, so she carried over her distaste to all four of us kids. She was a matted mess in her later years, but when we had to put her down when she was 18, I was in fifth grade. Then we got nameless dog I can't remember at the animal shelter. After spending five hours acclimating to the chaos of our house, he met my brother's best friend, whom he promptly bit and--poof--he was gone. Then were the two cats, Max and Nikki. Nikki was literally the scariest looking cat ever. Describing her face as having been rammed into a wall is an accurate, and admittedly, unkind description. Max looked like the Fancy Feast mane coon, but he marked his territory and then he was gone back to the shelter too.
Mari came from a shelter too. She's hasn't bit anyone. She hasn't run into any walls. She doesn't hold any grudges. When I looked for my current apartment, I wanted to have the option of having a pet. For you 8th graders, you need to know that you're not always allowed a pet... landlords are the t I-don't-live-at-home versions of parents after you move out of your house. I get off-track. In June I decided I wanted a kitten. Not just any kitten. The most meltyourheart kitten I could find. I visited the shelter on three different occasions over the course of two weeks. Mari stole my heart the first time but I wanted to be sure I was ready to be her mom. She was tiny. She had a tiny squeak. A tiny sneeze. I thought I'd call her Pip... like Pip Squeak. Fast forward to bringing her home. As teensy as she was, she fit behind the dressers, behind the radiators, and in tiny drawers. But her tiny being had a hold on my heart as strong as the the rings in an ancient tree's trunks. She'll be attached to me like that. A tree doesn't squeak when she hears the key in the door. A tree doesn't watch me from the window when I leave in the morning. A tree doesn't purr me to sleep at night. I never thought I'd be a cat lady... but as the New York Times article says, "Cat people are people too."
(At this point... I ran out of steam. I'm sitting at home watching "Mercy" and she is stretched out on the couch. Some other time when I'm feeling "the writing bug" approaching, I'll pick this up. Or maybe I won't. That's the thing about writing. You don't have to finish everything you start.)