From the day we met, Ralph and I were like peas and carrots. We enjoyed the same things, talked until our jaws hurt, burst into laughter over the silliest nonsense and we each thought the other hung the moon. It was almost perfect, except for a slight difference of opinion.

I wanted a cat.

He didn’t.

“What do you have against cats?” I demanded.

“Grandma’s cat bit me when I was six. I don’t like them.”

“You’re such a baby” I giggled. “Most kitties are wonderful.”

Over the next few months, I used every sales technique I knew to get him to say yes.

He wouldn’t budge.

Then one day a stray calico appeared on our front porch and helped me close the deal.

She was carrying a heavy load; a tummy packed so full of kittens that we could feel her belly writhe as they jostled for space.

“I think Dorothy would be a nice name” my new husband remarked, stroking her fur as the mom to be snuggled against him.

Amazing.

A few days later Dorothy made us grandparents, and our home was never catless again.

Six years ago we adopted a 19 pound gentle giant named Simon. White with black spots, he’s a gorgeous mama’s boy and a world class cuddler.

If Simon had a resume, his profession would be “surface tester.” Moving from chair to bed, sofa to floor. Simon is all about comfort.

For the first few years he was alone much of the day, but didn’t seem to mind. We made it up to him by showering him with love when we returned from work.

Then out of the blue, Simon began to mope. I knew he wasn’t sick because he ate like a horse. He fastidiously groomed himself. And he certainly didn’t lack for attention.

But something was off. He’d stare out the window for hours. Playtime didn’t interest him.

“Get him a friend” suggested my friend Aimee. “He’s probably lonely and bored. Imagine being the only one in the house who understands what meow means.”

She had a point.

After a ninety second family discussion, we went to the animal shelter to find a buddy for Simon.

A volunteer led Ralph and our daughter Julie through the cage area, while I was directed to the Kitty Kat room.

Inside was wall to wall adorableness. I sat down, and within seconds I was claimed by a young tabby named “Sid.” He purred, bumped my chin and settled into my arms. Of course my heart melted into a syrupy mess. I was about to announce that the search was over and I’d found Simon’s soul mate, when Ralph and Julie barreled through the door making the same claim.

Sid’s competition was a ten month old female named Maggie. She had big green astonished eyes, long white whiskers and black fur with white spots; the opposite of our white fur with black spots Simon.

“Please can we take her home?” Julie begged.

When she heard the word “home” Maggie poured on the charm.

For them.

But she wouldn’t let me near her with a ten foot pole.

After fifteen minutes of coaxing, I was over it.

“C’mon guys, she doesn’t like me. I found a sweet little boy next door. Let’s get him.”

Their distraught faces made it clear that we weren’t adopting Sid.

“I hope you like me better when we get home” I muttered, loading her into the car.

When Simon met Maggie, his inhospitable growl conveyed the message that his home was his castle and interlopers weren’t welcome

Maggie, undeterred by his rudeness, strolled across drawbridge and made herself comfortable.

For the first month their spats were endless; tussling, swatting and hissing. Once when Maggie snatched one of Simon’s catnip mice and dashed upstairs; he looked at me with bewildered eyes as if to say “Why are you doing this to me?”

One thing was certain. Our gentle giant was no longer lonely. 

Maggie was a constant source of amusement; from her bowlegged sprints down the stairs, to her sneak attacks on Simon while he was surface testing. She lay on her back like a dead bug as she watched TV, and licked the ice cubes bobbing in everyone’s glasses but mine. Ralph and Julie lavished love on her and spoiled her rotten.

I was permitted to feed her. That was it.

Every attempt to show her affection was met with a firm rebuff.  If I tried to pet her, she’d allow me to lightly touch the tip of a whisker or brush my finger over a tiny white paw before running away. I would cuddle with Simon and coax her to join us. She never did.

She was so cute that I couldn’t help but adore her, but a mom and daughter relationship appeared hopeless.

Then one day I was cleaning out a drawer and came across Maggie’s adoption paperwork. I opened the envelope and began to read.

The intake volunteer wrote “suspected abuse.” Maggie’s former owner was a woman.

Her cage tag was also included. It stated that she was “due out” two days after we adopted her.

Due out. My eyes filled with tears of pity.

When Julie found Maggie she was frightened and unwanted. She wasn’t in the Kitty Kat room with Sid and the more adoptable cats. If we hadn’t come along when we did, she’d have likely taken a sad one way trip across the Rainbow Bridge like so many before her.

Perhaps in some small way I reminded Maggie of her former owner, and she couldn’t trust me. It never occurred to me that events from her past might have been what kept us from becoming friends.

The following evening I found the key to her heart tucked between the sofa cushions.

Ralph brushed Maggie each night before bed, which was the highlight of her day. She’d wiggle around as he tickled her tummy, and preen as he smoothed her fur; Maggie’s idea of heaven.

As soon as Maggie saw the brush she leapt onto the sofa, and meowed. We observed each other for a moment, and I slowly placed it front of her. She sniffed it and began rubbing her head against the bristles. Then she inched closer to me with an expectant look in her big green eyes,

It was an invitation, and a miracle.

With each stroke of the brush, her once impenetrable walls began to crumble.

Now Maggie follows me everywhere. She curls up next to me as I watch TV; she lies by my chair as I write. She drops a catnip mouse at my feet, expecting a game of toss and fetch. She wants the ice cubes in my drinks, and burrows under our sheets at night.

I can’t scoop her up and cuddle her as I do Simon. That’s not who she is. There’s still a skittish boundary in place that I’m not permitted to cross.

But at last my Maggie loves me.  And the love of a cat is a beautiful thing.

Michelle Close Mills ©