nonfiction
Perfect All Along
Originally published in Chicken Soup for the Soul
If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. — Jewish Proverb
I always knew I’d be a cat mom. My vision was a studio apartment — perhaps above a café overlooking a park — where I’d write award-winning novels with a loyal feline companion by my side. She’d be plump with white, rabbit-soft fur and a pink nose, maybe five or six years old. I’d have chosen her — the perfect cat — at the local animal rescue. Together we’d have a perfect life.
But the dream would have to wait. Like many twenty-somethings, I was working full time, sharing a flat with two recent college graduates. My priorities included going to parties and jet-setting to exotic locations. I wasn’t ready to be a pet owner.
In the summer of 2008, I was a case manager at a women’s shelter. When a resident came home with a tiny black kitten, the whole house was abuzz. Maria begged the senior staff to let her keep it and they ultimately relented. She named him Chulo, Spanish for “cute.” True to his moniker, he was all ears and paws.
Seeing an opportunity for kitten therapy, I offered to watch him while Maria was at work. The minute she’d leave, I’d sneak him into my air-conditioned office. He was a welcome distraction, climbing the shelves and sharpening his claws on the couch. Before long, he’d collapse in my lap for belly rubs.
Over the following month, his visits became more frequent. Maria picked up as many extra shifts as possible, determined to pull herself and her two young daughters out of poverty. We rarely saw her at support groups or house meetings. Later that fall, she appeared in my office and slumped onto the sofa.
“Well, I got my housing voucher,” she announced rather indifferently. The waitlist for subsidized housing was long. Some of our residents had been on it for years.
“That’s amazing news,” I said. “Aren’t you excited?”
“They don’t allow animals.”
I instantly understood. If Maria wanted to escape homelessness and give her girls stability, she’d have to surrender Chulo. She had no choice.
“I know how much you love him…” she went on, setting up her pitch. I knew what was coming.
Still, I was holding out for my dream. My cat was going to be of my choosing, not one thrust upon me. Anyway, I was too irresponsible to own a pet. Too busy. Too self-involved. I had recently returned from two weeks in South America and was planning a trip to Europe. I told Maria I’d look after Chulo, but only until I could find him the perfect home.
However, the universe had other plans.
From the moment he peeked his head out of the cat carrier in my foyer, he wouldn’t let me out of his sight. Every morning, he stuck his paw under my bedroom door and demanded snuggles. When I was in the kitchen chopping vegetables, he was on the table. If I was reading on the balcony, he draped himself across my lap. My roommates teased me about my “little shadow.”
As his attachment grew, so did my own. I’d come home on my lunch break just to see him. I melted every time he curled up on my chest. His antics made me laugh — he once entered a living room full of guests, my bra dangling from his teeth. Chulo brought me a sense of joy and fulfillment I didn’t realize I was lacking.
None of his potential adopters met my standards. They were too old or too young. Too far. Too many kids. I was beginning to think no one out there could adequately care for him. Whenever an inquiry popped up in my inbox, my stomach clenched. Eventually, I stopped opening them altogether.
When Chulo was old enough for his neuter surgery, I set up an appointment at our neighborhood veterinary clinic. The receptionist chuckled as I strolled into the lobby, the pintsized furball trotting beside me on a leash.
“Name?” she asked.
“Chulo.”
“Not the cat’s name. Your name.” I hesitated. “You’re the owner, right?”
I glanced down at Chulo, gold dinner plate eyes staring back at me.
“Yes,” I answered, the hint of a smile forming at the corners of my mouth. “I’m the owner.”
We became inseparable. The motifs of my life shifted rapidly in those days. Jobs came and went. Friends drifted in and out. Romances began and ended. My apartment saw a steady turnover in housemates, yet Chulo was always present, the one constant. He was an impeccable judge of character. Any man who wanted to date me had to pass the Chulo Test. Finally, when Chulo was two, one man did.
My husband and I are childless by choice; our pets are our children. Now thirteen, Chulo is as much our son as any human child. As I reflect on over a decade of memories with him, I think of how close I came to rejecting this priceless gift. My allegiance to a fantasy almost blinded me to the blessing that was purring away right under my nose. Chulo was the perfect cat all along.
Orignally published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: My Clever, Curious, Caring Cat, 2021
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