It was supposed to be just a small favor. My coworker was out of town, and I was going to check in on her cats. After I lost my own companion to FIP a few years ago, I swore to myself: never again. My heart was locked shut, the pain was too deep. I told myself I’d just go in, feed them, and leave.
When I stepped into the house, most of the cats bolted. Stranger. Strange smell. Full alert.
Except for one.
She charged straight at me like she’d been waiting for this exact moment. Before I could even set the food bowls down, she climbed up my leg—tiny claws and all—determined and completely fearless. I laughed through the little stings and picked her up. She purred so hard it felt like she’d found a missing puzzle piece.
I stayed way longer than I planned. We played on the floor, and she curled up in my lap. But when I finally stood up to leave, panic hit her. She latched onto my leg again, gripping me like I was the last lifeboat pulling away from shore.
“I’ll come back,” I promised, gently peeling her off.
When I told my coworker about it, she didn’t hesitate for a second. “It sounds like she chose you. Take her.”
Now Mika is home with me. For two days she hasn’t left my side. She sleeps with one paw wrapped tightly around my finger, like she needs to make sure I won’t just disappear. If I stop cuddling for even a moment, she protests immediately.
I thought I was just going to check on the cats.
Instead, one of them checked on me—and decided I don’t have to walk this road alone anymore.
