A Ditch Cat and Lessons on Love

About a year ago I adopted Poppy.

I use the word adoption but in reality, I took a cat that was living in a ditch and brought her home. I didn’t want her. We had three animals already. But my mom put guilted me, saying it would be cold soon and she would be all alone out in the world.

And she had the saddest eyes I’d ever seen.

So I brought her home and didn’t really feel much for her for a while. She slept for the longest time, the kind of sleep you sleep after you’ve really been through something.

And she was so hungry. Even after eating cat food, she would catch bugs coming in through the fireplace and, much to the shocked disgust of our more domesticated pets, gobble them up like they were a delicacy.

It wasn’t long before she started wailing at night. These long, deafening moans that kept everyone awake and made me wish I had just let her take her chances in the cruel winter. I made an appointment to get her fixed just to stop the wailing but resented both her and my mother for the time and money it took.

When I brought her home, she had an incision on her belly and the vet said she needed to be isolated for several days so she wouldn’t rip and the other animals wouldn’t hurt her. So I put her in my yoga room — the room I had called for myself where I could be alone and unbothered — so she could heal, and a funny thing happened.

She laid down, groggy and vulnerable with stitches running down her little belly and she looked so pitiful that I laid down next to her in the floor. Soon we were both asleep. When I woke up and looked at Poppy and heard her soft breath, I loved her. That was it. I just loved her and wanted to take care of her forever. I loved her as much as I loved my other pets — which is a lot.

It’s funny. I was sure I didn’t have anymore room in my heart but instead of getting crowded it just grew and there was magically more space.

Not long after she healed, Poppy started wailing and wanting again. This time to be outside — that place where she started. She gave us no choice, really. There was just no way to keep her in once she made her mind up.

The first time she ran off, my hear sank and I knew she was gone for good. I walked around the neighborhood in the dark with a flashlight calling her name like she was a dog. I left the light on and put food out and waited up as late as I could, then slept on the couch in case she came scratching on the door.

I awoke about 3 am and decided it was a lost cause but walked outside anyway, looked up at the moon and closed my eyes to pray to whatever there is out there.

“Please keep Poppy safe. Take care of her wherever she is.”

Then, in the dark with my eyes closed, I felt the softness of her fur brush against my leg. So I reached down, picked her up and we went inside.

Over the next few weeks, this scenario continued until I learned to trust.

Trust that she is meant to be outside. That’s where she was born and where she hunts. But she always comes back, tired and satisfied, and snuggles with us to sleep. Her eyes aren’t sad anymore.

Somehow I know there is a bigger lesson in all this. Maybe it’s about love or letting go or just about cats. Hopefully, I can pin it down one day or maybe, like Poppy, I can let it run free and know it’ll come to me when I least expect it.

The lesson, that is. I don’t want anymore damn animals.