When I was in college I saw an ad in the paper for a free cat. She was a 16-year-old Calico named Callie. I thought we were a good match. I could help a cat in need and get her love in return. And, because of her age, I figured she'd pass away before I left for graduate school. Perfect timing for both of us.
Her owner had died, and she was the one pet his family wouldn't take in. I might have inquired why they didn't want her with an open mind and understanding heart, but instead, I was simply aghast (just a wee bit judgmental). After all, I was 20 and issues of animal welfare were pretty black and white.
I'm far too stubborn to be a hypocrite, so over the next months, my noisy criticism of her previous family strengthened my resolve to make this strange cat love me. For four months she lived in the kitchen cabinet (actually in my lazy Susan) only to come out to relieve herself on the carpet. Wall-to-wall became bare wood.
In Month 6, she moved into a new space, under my bed. Eventually, she began to sneak out until her days were spent with me instead of the dust bunnies.









