The screaming is never piercing enough to keep us from loving her. She is the softest and most precious, the plushy queen of all she surveys. Her nighttime excitement wakes us, but when consciousness finds us, even in the uncounted darkness that seems eternal, we are unable to resist a snuggle, which ensures she will scream forever. Knowing this, we still give in.

Like her sweet little belly, the details of her early life are fuzzy. She came to us as something of a damsel in distress. She had been locked away–with a companion–in a guest bedroom in a mansion, with a paid caretaker and very little facetime with her human. Apparently the five german shepherds who had the run of the house couldn’t be trusted to leave the cats uneaten, which sealed their fate. Imagine a scenario in which these words would escape your lips and you will understand: “I think I’ll visit the cats today.” When the caretaker–our friend Joshua–moved on, he took the cats with him, freeing them from their luxurious prison, and plunging them into middle class squalor.

She was spoken for even before she was sprung, but the speaker’s landlord changed her mind, and Seven was in limbo again. Joshua introduced the two new cats to his home, which was the territory of venus, his cat of 12 years who hadn’t lived with other animals in more than a decade. He hadn’t planned on having three cats, but he was hellbent on rehoming Seven with an exceptional family, since he had intentionally removed her from a safe, if not loving, home. This cat would never be allowed to enter a shelter while he remained alive. He would have to act quickly, since the discord between the three cats was more than he had bargained for. 

If you haven’t checked the market for cats in LA (or in any city, for that matter), I can tell you without knowing when you are reading this that they are thick on the ground. Kittens flow like water, to the great delight of their adoptive families. Finding homes for adult cats is a much more difficult proposition. Old cats are stereotyped with unattractive qualities like vomiting, incontinence, bad scratching habits, general surliness, and the looming spectre of death. Not everyone’s first choice for a roommate. Joshua ran a stellar marketing campaign for Seven while attempting to maintain order in a house full of fighting cats for two months, and still had no takers.

Since the moment the landlord changed her mind, Joshua had been lobbying us to adopt Seven, but we were wary of keeping an animal in our tiny apartment, even if she had previously been confined to an even smaller space. We agreed to be a temporary waystation while Joshua was hosting out of town guests for a week–it was understood that they would not be comfortable witnessing a series of vicious brawls between three angry cats. Thus, Seven got her tiny foot in the door.

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The moment she steps out of the carrier, she is looking for the cat-shaped hole in our apartment. She spends about four seconds locating it. The cat-shaped hole is behind our click clack futon–a triangle of space against the wall that is just big enough for her and the werewolf Santa decoration she has pushed aside. (He looks angry, but he’s still Santa, so he welcomes even the rudest beings into his home with mirth.) I search “soothing music for cats” on Youtube and play the music through the TV, loud enough that Alan accuses me of scaring her. I screw my body into the tiny space beside the futon and poke my head toward her. Her eyes are crystalline green daggers, and I am certain she will kill me with them. 

“She’s okay. She just needs time.”

“You’re scaring her!” Alan really wants me to turn the music down. He is a first-time cat human, and to say that he is on edge would be a colossal understatement. I, however, have been watching cats live, laugh, love, eat, sleep, pee, poop, puke, and die in much more distressing circumstances than these for many years. I am confident that he is mostly right and mostly wrong. She is scared, but the scenario is scary no matter what we do: she’s been kidnapped for the second time in two months. Any of us would be shitting ourselves, but she simply finds the cat-shaped hole, trusting in its embrace. Her poise puts us to shame.

—–

During the week of temporary residence, many cat-shaped holes go unseen by the dull humans. She trusts the space below our bed implicitly, its dusty carpet and maze of cardboard allowing her to absorb the muffled sounds and smells of our tiny world. Our home is too small to grant her invisibility, but she does make her best attempt. 

On our second day together, she allows us to spend some time in her presence, voluntarily sitting near us after eating. She seems to be warming to the idea of being the only furry being, and I wonder if this is the first time she’s been without her companion. Joshua had once used the word “bully” to describe her. Is she contemplating her fresh start? With no competition for food, will she devote her life to compassion and kindness? Will she never see another cat, making it a moot point? The food remains in the bowl regardless of her absences, which must be a rare pleasure despite the questions it raises. 

The initial week comes and goes, and Seven remains. She learns to use the poorly balanced cat tree without faltering. Another week passes. She tolerates our patently unluxurious cat food and swoons for our constant affection. A month passes. She becomes brave outdoors and sees a raccoon, for what I assume is the first time. We receive permission to keep her. She becomes our cat. 

It goes without saying that our cat-shaped hole is always full now, no matter where she is.

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