We had only been in our new house for a month when fate came knocking—well, purring.
My husband stepped outside to get the mail, and out of nowhere, a half-grown kitty came sprinting across the street. She didn’t hesitate, didn’t think twice. She ran straight to him, pressed herself against his legs, and purred like she’d finally found something she’d been searching for.
When he opened the front door to call me, she slipped right past him and walked in like she already lived there.
We gently moved her to the patio to keep her separate from our other cats, set up a warm bed, a heating pad, a litter box—everything she needed. The door stayed open so she could leave anytime.
But she didn’t. She chose to stay.
A vet visit confirmed what our hearts already knew: she had no microchip, had never been spayed, and very likely had been fending for herself. We got her cleaned up, chipped, tested, treated for fleas, and brought her inside. The plan was to foster her until after the holidays.
But on New Year’s Day, I walked in, saw her curled up like she belonged, and the truth hit me: I couldn’t let her go.
Her name is Phoebe.
She chose us first.
And now she’s our fifth—and final—kitty, right where she was always meant to b
