Physically, mentally, emotionally, I was drained. Life had been full of transitions, reached new heights of stress, and unexpected grief. There were several highs but some big lows. And it had gone on like that for about a year, with little to no time to process any of that stress or grief. Now, I was getting ready to start my first year teaching (which is a blur and mostly survival for most first-year teachers), I was newly married (which I wrongly assumed would solve all of my woes) and we had moved into a new city (where we didn’t know a single soul). It is now reasonable why I was so very sad.

It was a Saturday. I was moody and didn’t know what to do with myself. I knew that Eric knew I was in a funk, and I was sure he didn’t know what to do about it. He said he was going to run some errands. I was hurt. He didn’t invite me.

As newlyweds, we did everything together! We took naps together, we cooked together, we practically followed each other from one room to the other. If one didn’t inform the other where he or she was going, it was asked. But for one to declare, ‘I’m going out,’ implying that the other should not come with, was highly unusual. In my state, I was certain he just wanted time away from me. He couldn’t stand me anymore and I had better figure a way out of the mood before he came back.

Of course, he didn’t communicate any of that. I was making poor assumptions of my husband. I should have given him more credit, because when he came home, he brought a surprise.

I was sitting in the hand me down rocking chair we’d brought from my college apartment. It was left to me, and I’m not sure how many college apartments it had been through before mine. I was doing my Bible study, diligently trying to get out of the mood I was in. Eric walked through the back door to our apartment, through the kitchen and into our living room.

I could see he was carrying something. He looked as if he had just done something incredibly manly, like chopped wood or built a fire, and simultaneously saved a damsel in distress. He grinned, like he was trying to hide a smile. He walked across the apartment with strength exuding from his gate and posture in all seriousness and delight.

Then, he placed in my lap a small kitten. The flood of moodiness welled up within me. I couldn’t keep back my feelings, whatever and however tangled they were. I wept. Tears streaming, the sadness began washing away. The stress began to dissipate, bidding goodbye. The grief began to draw near with warmth. Like a dear friend at the back of the visitation line, finally it had come close. At last, we embraced and cried with both pain and comfort.

The kitten began to purr and crawl all over me. She was amber, streaked with jagged black stripes which faded into brown jagged patches throughout. Her underbelly was tan with black spots, like a cheetah’s. At first, I thought she might be the ugliest thing I had ever seen. But as my heart waxed and waned from grief to gratitude, it didn’t matter. After a moment or two, she was the cutest, little thing I had ever laid eyes on.

I looked up at Eric’s face. He was smiling, very pleased with the outcome. His solo mission was successful.

“Is it a boy or girl?” I asked between worthless sniffles.

“It’s a girl,” he said with glee, drawing out his words and tilting his head from side to side.

“How old is she?” I looked down at her, pulling her claws off my chest as she climbed up my shirt.

“She’s about seven or eight weeks old, they think.” He stroked her fur with me.

“Where did you get her?”

“At the pet store.”

“The pet store?” I squawked. (In small towns, they come free at the corner and garage sales. I had never known anyone who purchased a kitten before.)

“Yep!” he said, still very pleased with himself. “I walked over to the display case where they all were, and she was the first one who walked up to me. When they opened the door to let me hold one, she came right to me. I said, ‘I’ll take that one!’” He sighed with satisfaction. “What will you name her?” He asked. I thought about it for, oh, two seconds, then chirped,

“Millie,” I said, and smiled at my new pet. She looked up at me. Our eyes locked. Then she closed hers and rubbed her head beneath my chin. Still purring, she nuzzled her face against mine.

Millie is now thirteen years old. She’s moved four times. Just when she came home as an only child, she learned to welcome three human children, one dog, and five other cats. She’s never been a fan of all our transitions. Some cats would just leave and find new owners, but Millie has stayed with me through it all. Through many flu seasons, dark sleepy mornings with coffee and a Bible, long nights with a teething baby, clean laundry piles and various attempts at making headway through a book, Millie has purred and nuzzled her way into a good scratch behind the ears. More than any other pet, Millie gets the best of my affections.

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