Adoption Anniversary: One Year with a Cat

When I was a child, my next door neighbors had a cat named Patches. Patches wasn't a house cat, and she wasn't an especially friendly cat. She roamed outside and rarely heeded any human.

I loved Patches. When my neighbors went on vacation, they'd ask me to keep an eye out for her. I took my job seriously, checking her food bowl in their garage every morning and evening. They had given me their garage door opener (a major sign of trust for an eight year old), and when I'd exit their garage, I'd carefully pause the door during its descent so there was just enough room for Patches to enter, but not enough room for a burglar to slip through the crack. (My eight-year-old self always looked out for burglars.) Patches rarely ate from her bowl, but I'd keep the food fresh just in case she'd come home hungry.

Throughout my childhood years, I loved watching Patches walk with her perfect feline balance along the line of Belgium blocks that edged our Pittsburgh back yard. I loved the rare moments when she offered affection and brushed against my mosquito-bitten legs in the summer. For all her aloofness, I was convinced that Patches loved me.

My neighbors moved away to a nearby town the summer before I entered high school. When they locked their house on their final departure, they hadn't been able to find Patches. This wasn't unusual; she often disappeared for longer stretches. They drove away, asking me to keep an eye out for her, stating that they'd come back for her.

Later that day, I swore I heard Patches meowing outside their house. I circled their yard while calling her name, but couldn't find her. The next morning I heard distant meowing again, and once more, I circled their house methodically. By the third day, I had grown concerned. I'd periodically hear faint meowing from the sides of their house as I looped the perimeter of their yard, but I never heard her when I stood in the front or back yard.

That's when it struck me: the exterior vents to the attic were on adjacent sides of their house. Patches wasn't roaming outside -- she had been trapped for days in a sweltering attic! We called our neighbors, who immediately drove back from their new house. Since they already had turned in their house keys for the new owners, my dad grabbed our tallest ladder (the one reserved for his summer exterior house painting jobs across Pittsburgh), propped it against the side of their house, and extended it to the third story attic peak. My neighbor climbed the ladder, busted a hole in the vent, and dragged Patches out of the attic.

I still remember my dad asking my teenage brother to carry the ladder home quickly, insisting that he should walk it behind our neighbor's house through their back yard. I found this secrecy unnecessary, but then realized its brilliant timing when, a moment later as our group reconvened in my yard with Patches in my neighbor's arms, our brand new neighbors pulled their car into their driveway.

I'm still not sure if that family ever knew we dragged a nearly-dead cat out of their attic mere minutes before they moved in.

Someone rushed to fill a bowl of water for Patches. My mom opened a can of tuna from our pantry and set it down on our sidewalk. We all stood around, heightened from the drama but trying to act casual: waving hello to greet our new neighbors, sighing in relief as Patches devoured the tuna, whispering under our breaths, "Man, that was a close one."

Even if Patches never could tell me, by that point, I knew she loved me.

It was a year ago when this story resurfaced in my memories. I hadn't thought about Patches or her attic rescue for years, perhaps decades. This is because one year ago -- on January 16, 2021 -- my family adopted our own cat. We named her Peanut.



Of all the members in my family, I had been the person who dragged my feet throughout the years whenever anyone broached the topic getting a pet. I had enough responsibility already, I thought, and I surely didn't need to be in charge of keeping one more thing alive and well.

But last January we were nearly one year into the pandemic, and, quite frankly, everything and everyone was a mess. I rarely left the house, my kids were miserable, and all of my resolve had been worn down. Somehow, we ended up filling out an application, and on a frigid Saturday afternoon my family walked from room to room through our local PAWS, thoughtfully regarding all the cats before we unanimously settled on Peanut.

Have you ever finally gotten something that you had long desired, but you hadn't even realized that you wanted it until you got it? That was me, at 42 years old, when I brought home the first pet I've ever had.

It was like a floodgate had opened, like a childhood desire from decades ago not only had been remembered and rekindled, but also entirely fulfilled in one fell swoop. Day by day, I'd marvel when I saw Peanut walking around our house. I'd stop in my tracks and watch as she curled up to sleep in a cozy corner. I'd find myself laughing at the sound of her tiny nails clicking against the floor when she careened down our hallway and slid around the corner.


I thought I had been in tune with myself, my wants, and my emotions, and this unexpected depth of feeling surprised me. I had loved cats my whole life, apparently. I suppose I always had wanted a cat. I just didn't know it. Or at some point along the way, I had forgotten it.

But now I have a cat.

If you'd ask anyone in our family who Peanut loves best, everyone would have the same answer. Hands down, it's me. My kids find this unfair, and they have a point. "You didn't even want to get a pet!" they remind me, as Peanut brushes her way around my legs. They're entirely right. I didn't want to get a pet. Thank God we don't always get what we want, and thank God we sometimes get what we don't think we want.

I should tell you that when I taught class remotely from my bedroom from that January through June, Peanut would perch herself on top of my desk to watch. She often sits beside me when I read. She sleeps near me every night -- sometimes on top of me. She seems to sense when I'm sad, and during those moments, she won't leave my side.


I think back to eight-year-old Robin who watched over Patches, making sure the garage door was left ajar the perfect height for her to slip in and get food. I think back to fourteen-year-old Robin who cried in relief as I watched my neighbor pull Patches from the attic vent, tuck her against his chest, and climb down the ladder. I think of all the times throughout my childhood when I observed Patches, or tried to pet her, or imitated her by walking along the Belgium blocks that lined our back yard, my arms extended for balance, as Patches deftly darted ahead of me.

So many years have passed since I've been those versions of Robin, but apparently, that young girl is still in me. I'm grateful that I've gotten what my heart desired, even though I hadn't been aware for a long time that I desired it.

Happy one year anniversary, Peanut. You are so loved.


2 comments

Back to Top