By Andrea Crowley-Hughes

To say that I have always loved cats is an understatement. As a teen growing up long before the days of Jackson Galaxy, I pored over a book about cat behavior. Relatives would get me cat calendars every year. My even younger self had a cadre of plush cats I carried with me from room to room. Before I turned seven, a friend and I carried away a cat who was having sticks pelted at her from a kid whose parents were allergic. “Snowbell” lived on our porch so she wouldn’t have to co-exist with our dog and could come and go as she pleased, but we’d leave out food for her, and my sister and and I watched her lovingly from the window.

Even though my feline fascination re-emerged in adulthood (it helps that I’m lucky enough to live in the era where it’s not viewed as weird or childish to be enthusiastically into cats – they  dominate social media platforms and there is an actual event called CatCon), there was a point where I wasn’t sure if I could love a cat in person again.

It was just so hard losing Oliver.

Oliver was a tuxedo who lived on the edge – literally. I once had to pull him in from the ledge of our third-floor apartment using just my hands, a broom and sheer hope. Shortly after he came home in a tiny kitten crate, we thought he was lost only to hear faint mewing from the refrigerator!

This troublemaker came into my life weeks after my grandfather died, and my mom, sister and I took an impulsive trip to the pet shop. In the mid-90s, at least in my corner of the universe, there wasn’t as much awareness about adopting. Of a litter of kittens, we gravitated to the friskiest one there, and it helped that we were told this cat was “a girl” (only to learn at their first vet visit that we got the wrong information).

Oliver helped me muddle through the dually dark void of experiencing my first loss and stumbling into teenagerhood as a shy girl in a chaotic family. He would sleep next to my pillow at night, which felt watchful and protective. I read and wrote in my journal with him at my side. He shredded many couches, and his scratches broke my skin, but he was so lively, curious and, yes, cute that I wasn’t even mad about it.

But Oliver wasn’t set up to have his best life, and there was only so much I could do about it. In the Internet-enabled culture of today, I might have come across a slew of resources on how to work with rather than against a cat’s behavior, suggestions for interactive toys and recommendations for preventative vet care, but all I had was one book, and in the family constellation, he was treated as a side character. I like to think that I saw Oliver for his unique being. Although he helped us through a hard time, that wasn’t his purpose. He had an interior life all his own, and although his behaviors were sometimes annoying, they could be met with compassion, not water-squirting and disdain. It just seemed as if I was the only one who felt that way.

The end of his time with us was a sad consequence of the neglect he experienced. Looking back, I feel like I could have seen it coming. It involved animal control, a quick, shocking decision and a teary-eyed me on the phone with animal shelters and on some of the first Internet chat rooms, sharing my sadness with a few well-meaning ladies under the moniker “oliverzgon.”

I went to college dreaming of starting a cat sanctuary one day to atone for what happened to the curious kitty of my past, but it took years before I found myself able to house even one cat. I inhabited a string of non-cat-friendly living situations in my 20s and even early 30s. But I recently moved into a new apartment with my husband, and cat friendliness was one of our top criteria. Plus, at 34 I just started to feel emotionally ready to adopt a cat and able to provide a loving, stable home.

Just over a month ago, we were claimed by a black cat with dark moons of pupils against her bright green eyes. Orchid was found in backyard woods as part of a trap, neuter, release program, but she loved people so much she didn’t want to go back outside.

On the day we met her, she accepted our petting with loving, calm energy that simplified the long process of finding our cat. Although the emotions behind her adoption were complex, the leap was simple – something in Orchid spoke to something within us. The something was peaceful – even cautious – but with a hint of dynamism.

Raising Orchid had me abuzz with nerves in the beginning, and sometimes it still does. Would she ever come out from under the bed (where she hid when she first came to live with us)? Could the crust beneath her eyes sometimes, the occasional throwing up, be a sign of something terrible that could take our cat away? Would she squeeze herself into a wall and have to be excavated out? Some of this caution and apprehension was and is good, as it speaks to the increased attention we’re giving to our furry friends.

Some of it was and is fear and delayed grief for a cat who lived a precarious life and was taken away so suddenly.

But I’m trying to find balance. Orchid greets us in the morning with a sort of ripple in her meow – mrow-ooh-ow! – to welcome us into the day and nudge us toward filling her food bowl. She’ll keep me company while I work, especially if I place a blanket strategically on my lap.

She’ll shoot out of her cat tunnel to launch in a fixed trajectory that may or may not curve toward the bird-on-a-string toy that came with her from her foster home. And unforgettable are her loud purrs, her nuzzles that always come at the right time and how freely she is able to give love.

Because of her, and because of all the growth that led to the point of meeting her, I’m able to give love back.