Lucky. a visual novel-in-progress

by shannon gill

(Please view in “Present” mode for full impact!) table of contents introduction, aka, “what is this?” year 9 prologue year 10 year 1 year 11 year 2 year 12 year 3 year 13 year 4 year 14 year 5 year 15 year 6 year 16 year 7 year 17 year 8 epilogue introduction

Lucky. is a visual novel about the life of a young family through the eyes of their cat from kittenhood to death. Lucky. explores themes of love, loss, childhood, adulthood, and family in the typical “mundane” American household.

This story is for anyone who has ever been blessed to know the kind of unconditional, unwavering, and magical love only an animal can provide.

> You lost me at “visual novel”. what is a visual novel?

Visual novels (VN) are a video game genre that emerged in Japan in the 1980s. They allow you to experience a story’s words with accompanying visuals. They may also include music, voice acting, and film. Gameplay is generally limited to point-and-click progression. Some have fully linear storylines, others allow you to make choices in the “choose your own adventure” style that result in different storylines and endings.

Lucky. is an example of the former.

Hideo Kojima’s Snatcher (1988). An early example of a visual novel with adventure gameplay elements. what is a visual novel?

Though they were once an obscure genre within the niche hobby of video gaming, VNs now enjoy heightened popularity in the West with widespread interest in Japanese gaming and animation.

With the availability of freeware like Ren’py, it’s easier than ever for anyone to write and program their own visual novel in any language.

Though the Pokémon series (1996-present) has a system of gameplay too complicated to qualify it as a true VN, each game has VN elements. TYPE-MOON’s Fate/stay night (2004) is one of the world’s most popular visual novels, having spawned multiple manga, anime series, video games, and other spin-offs. (Google this one at your own risk.) Date Nighto’s We Know The Devil (2015) is a critically acclaimed original English language work. so what’s in the deck?

Lucky. is currently a work-in-progress. What you will find here is a rough draft of the script, along with (very) rough sketches.

My plan through the end of the school year is to partner with an illustrator for the visuals, add music and sound effects, and program it into Ren’py so it can become a game you can actually download and play. I’m also considering getting it fully voiced.

For my book, there will be a short trailer for the game, and a full playthrough available on YouTube for those who do not want to download it.

> Cool, what can I do? how can i help?

I know this as long as heck (though is much less of a task than the number of slides here would imply), so if you decide to tackle any of it, let alone all of it, it’s highly appreciated.

Any and all criticism of the writing is welcome. You won’t hurt my feelings. (I know the drawings are ugly though so plz be nice about that.)

Does the story interest you? Does it move you? Make you laugh? Do the characters feel relatable? Do I lose you anywhere? Are voices consistent?

Thank you for your feedback.

> Let’s get started. Lucky. prologue FAMILIAR VOICE: He’s been here awhile. Not sure why. Kittens usually get snapped up within a couple of days.

prologue OTHER VOICE: How long is “awhile”?

prologue My ears twitch at the sounds of voices on the other side of the glass.

I’ve yet to finish my afternoon nap but that’s never stopped anyone. Not the kennel moms tossing me a new toy, and definitely not the loud, small humans tapping on my window calling “kitty kitty, pretty kitty!”

I can feel their gazes on me, but I refuse to open my eyes. It’s too easy to get your hopes up for every stranger who stops by your cage and fawns. Too easy and too painful when you wait and wait and wait and wait only to realize you’re spending yet another night in the kennel sleeping next to a grumpy old queen who won’t share her scratcher.

prologue FAMILIAR VOICE: A few weeks. It’s a shame, ‘cos he’s so sweet! Aren’t you, Lucky?

prologue OTHER VOICE: Did you name him ‘Lucky’, or…?

I cover my eyes with one of my paws. I hate this story.

prologue FAMILIAR VOICE: Me? No, no. Angie came up with that. Our manager over at the big shelter downtown. She found him half-drowned in a storm drain over in the Weston Hills neighborhood. We think he probably got away from his mama in that big rain we had a few weeks ago. There’s a colony of strays nearby we’ve been trying to get under control with our TNR program.

What’s luck got to do with any of that?

prologue OTHER VOICE: And that’s lucky?

Thank you, stranger! Someone finally said it.

prologue FAMILIAR VOICE: He’s lucky someone found him and took him in, ain’t he?

prologue OTHER VOICE: But not lucky enough yet to find a home.

prologue FAMILIAR VOICE: Well, maybe you could make today his luckyyyyyy day, eh? We reduced his adoption fee to only fifty dollars. That includes his vaccines: rabies, feline distemper, feline herpes, aaaand… calcivirus, I think, is the last one. Calcuvirus? Calicivirus. I can get you the full list if you want it, but it’s all the standard stuff your vet’d do in his first year.

prologue OTHER VOICE: Oh, I don’t know, I—

prologue FAMILIAR VOICE: Hey Lucky boy, you wanna wake up and say hi to the nice lady?

prologue I do and I don’t. At this point, my nap has been ruined - at least until I’m sleepy again in 20 minutes, as is the feline’s wont. I dare to crack open my eyes.

prologue prologue The fluorescent lights of the store are always way too bright, but the new face looming in front of the glass of my enclosure casts a shadow over my bed, sparing me the post-sleep blinding. I stretch my spindly arms out in front of me and yawn, filling my enclosure with the delightful scents of salmon breath.

The person watching me smiles gently as I lazily rise into a sitting position. I don’t make eye contact with her; that would be desperate. But I do watch her out of the corners of my eyes as I bring my mouth to my paw, tongue flickering across my soft pink toes.

prologue FAMILIAR VOICE: Awww, he woke up for you! Good boy!

The familiar voice belongs to one of the kennel moms who comes by the store to feed me and clean my bathroom. She’s one of a few. One of the noisiest. But she has some of the best scritches, so I can’t complain about the interrupted sleep.

prologue STRANGER: Hey, Lucky. You’re such a cutie. I can’t believe no one’s taken you home yet.

prologue As far as I’m concerned, this is home. It’s a bit cramped, but it’s better than the storm drain.

I blink at her, in the barest acknowledgment of her presence, before looking around my enclosure to see if anything’s changed since my last snooze.

Nope. Nothing. Same old bleak walls, worn bedding, and almost-stale kibble.

prologue KENNEL MOM: Want to hold him?

prologue STRANGER: If I hold him, I won’t be able to go home without him.

prologue KENNEL MOM: Dang, you figured me out! Seriously, though, no pressure. Even if you don’t adopt today, it’ll help socialize him. The more humans he meets, the better. Gets him ready for his future family.

prologue The kennel mom gestures and leads the stranger away. Their voices fade as they round the corner of the kennels. As I expected, Kennel Mom is going to let her into the shelter space.

They close the door behind them and I slowly turn to face the ice-cold metal bars on the other side of my enclosure.

prologue prologue I never wanted to see the world through a cage.

prologue KENNEL MOM: Hey Lucky boy. It’s cuddle time.

I squirm as Kennel Mom reaches in and cups my body in her hands, passing me off to the stranger.

prologue prologue The stranger’s hands are small and soft. They smell strongly of something grassy, like a lawn after the rain. Unlike the hands of the kennel moms, they’re free of the brutal claw-scars left by shelter residents, past and present.

My wet nostrils flare as I assess the notes of her natural musk beneath the grassy aroma. Like most humans, it’s odd - but the kind of odd you could get used to, the kind you might someday crave.

prologue STRANGER: Oof! He’s a slippery one!

prologue KENNEL MOM: Luckyyyyyy. Quit wiggling, ya goofball.

I would quit wiggling if she’d hold me right. She brings me to her chest and I throw my paws at her neck, clinging to her shoulders for dear life. My nose is pressed to her throat and I can feel her pulse. Her heart beats faster as I make myself comfortable against her warm body.

prologue STRANGER: Ohhhh, nooooo…

She nuzzles my forehead. Her warmth is a pleasant reprieve from the chilled air of the shelter space.

prologue KENNEL MOM: Told you he’s a sweetie. And he’s fully recovered from his neuter surgery a couple of weeks ago. No balls, no babies!

prologue STRANGER: And he hasn’t had any adoption interest…?

prologue KENNEL MOM: Oh, he’s had a few people come by. One family signed all the forms but then had to back out. Broke my little heart for him. I know cats don’t understand “adoption”, but he definitely moped around for a few days after that.

prologue I understand well enough by now. I know that the others in the shelter get to leave in the arms of a smiling human. Where they go, I do not know, and I’m beginning to doubt I’ll get to find out.

prologue KENNEL MOM: You can hang out with him in here for a few minutes. I’m gonna run and grab a new box of litter out of storage.

prologue As Kennel Mom leaves the room, the stranger and I find ourselves cuddling in a chair. I settle against her chest, content to leave the wiggles behind. She lays gentle stroke upon gentle stroke down my back. I can’t help but purr along with her pets.

STRANGER: You need a mom, Lucky? It’d be just the two of us. You might get lonely.

prologue I flex a paw, kneading my toothpick-sharp claws into the skin of her collarbone. Someday I will be deadly, but for now, my claws only tickle her. I wobble in her arms as she giggles.

STRANGER: Especially after I start my grad program. Would you hate me if I left you alone sometimes?

Only a little. I forgive quickly.

STRANGER: I’d love to be your mom. But I’ll have to think about it some more. And make sure I can get you everything you need to be happy.

I’d only need you. Okay, and food. Lots of food. As much food as I can eat. But mostly just you.

prologue STRANGER: Food, a litter box, litter for the box, toys, a carrier, bedding… Scratchers. Flea medicine.

She stretches her finger beneath my chin, tilting my face towards hers. My eyes meet hers for the first time and I feel a joy stir deep within me. It’s a familiar one, pleasant and peaceful, not unlike the dewy spring mornings spent suckling alongside my brothers and sisters, getting our fill before our bath time.

Her eyes are warm and inviting. I naturally avoid eye contact, and maintain it only for brief moment before breaking the gaze.

prologue But in the moment when our eyes lock, mine plead with her in silence. I will love you if you will love me, I vow.

prologue KENNEL MOM: Did you fall in love?

The kennel mom returns, wobbling under the weight of the massive box of litter in her arms. My trance is broken, but my kind stranger clutches me tight even as I begin to squirm once again.

prologue STRANGER: A little. I need to take some time to think about it. Check with my landlord. I don’t want to make any promises I can’t keep.

prologue I feel a tightening in my chest as my kind stranger places me back in my enclosure and the kennel mom once again cages me.

KENNEL MOM: Hey, totally understandable. Well, if you decide you want him, give us a call and we’ll make sure he’s here for you when you can come back down to the store. We’ll be here handling adoptions until seven tonight.

prologue I feel a tightening in my chest as my kind stranger places me back in my enclosure and the kennel mom once again cages me.

KENNEL MOM: Hey, totally understandable. Well, if you decide you want him, give us a call and we’ll make sure he’s here for you when you can come back down to the store. We’ll be here handling adoptions until seven tonight.

prologue I settle in my enclosure, looking out of my glass once again, as the kennel mom escorts my kind stranger away from the shelter space.

When she passes by my enclosure, she gives me a wave and a smile.

With my luck, it’s probably yet another wave goodbye. I flop down on my side - as good a goodbye a fragile-hearted cat could muster.

prologue I had learned to expect disappointment, but it did not prevent me from staring out my window all day at the store’s front doors. And when the black of night began pouring in through the store’s windows, I knew my kind stranger was not returning. The store is always quiet after dark.

I allow myself a deep sleep long after the store’s doors are locked and the staff have gone away. I dream of my kind stranger, and the other kind strangers that have come and gone in my hours, days, weeks in the kennel.

prologue When morning comes, I am jolted awake by the sounds of my elderly next-door neighbor, Sunny, vomiting bile. She is nothing if not regular with her bodily malfunctions. On the other side of the cage bars, one of the other kennel moms is already gathering towels to clean up Sunny’s mess. Unfortunately for the rest of us, the putrid acidic musk will linger in the air until midday.

I put thoughts of yesterday’s kind stranger out of my head, and drift off to sleep after a rowdy tussle with my catnip fish. But my nap is cut short by the sounds of yesterday’s kennel mom milling around in the shelter space, talking to someone.

prologue KENNEL MOM: —I’m soooo happy you came back! You know, they say a cat chooses you, not the other way around.

prologue STRANGER: That’s what I’ve always heard. I definitely felt like he wanted me to be his mom. That probably sounds crazy.

prologue KENNEL MOM: Not at all! Hey, Lucky—today’s your lucky day! For real this time!

My heart leaps in my chest. My kind stranger—my Mom—has returned. She smiles at me through the cage, and sticks her long finger through one of the gaps in the bars to scratch the top of my head.

prologue MOM: Hi Lucky!

Mom drops her voice to a whisper as she unlatches my cage.

MOM: I’ll love you if you love me!

prologue She picks me up and I cling to her tighter than I did the day before.

MOM: I’ll love you even if you don’t love me. How’s that sound?

prologue I brush my nose against her chin, breathing in her sweet musk once again.

I love you already.

prologue Lucky. year one year one My days always start just the same.

As the first light peeps in Mom’s bedroom window, I drag myself out of my bed, across the house, and into my box to relieve myself.

Mom keeps my box in a corner near the potted plant. She takes care to remind me every now and then that it’s fake, and that chewing on its leaves ruins it forever, it won’t grow back.

I don’t understand what any of that means, but I suppose it doesn’t matter. I’ve since discovered that the plant makes a better hiding place than it does a snack.

After I bury my mess, I shake my paws off and take a few minutes to watch the sun come up over the parking lot outside the window. There are strangers that live nearby, beyond our walls. Strangers who leave every morning and return every evening. One of them will wave to me if he sees me in the window. One morning I greeted him in return with my pink toes pressed up against the glass. His big grin reminds me of Mom’s when she’s happy.

year one And Mom is happy when she’s with me. This is why I wake her up every morning at the same time by nipping my teeth on her toes exposed under the bedding. She loves it so much she’s started dressing for the occasion by wearing thick socks to bed. But my teeth have grown so much that I can sink my teeth right through the knitting! I try not to bite too hard, but she yelps nonetheless, and I leap back to the floor out of the way of her unwieldy feet.

MOM: Aaaauuuggghhh… You are the worst, cutest little alarm clock.

year one She feels around for her phone on the nightstand. It illuminates when she lifts it, and all she needs is a brief glance at its glow to determine if it’s time for her to get up, or if she can snooze for a little while longer.

I jump into bed with her, loafing my body at her feet. She dozes off for a little while longer, making me wait for my food. I can wait a few minutes. I might die, but I’ll wait.

For a few minutes. But that’s it.

year one …

Time’s up.

I make my way across the blanket, purring loudly. I push my face against her cheek, tickling her with my whiskers. She wrinkles her nose. I can feel her slowly returning to consciousness. When she opens her eyes, we will be face to face.

year one year one MOM: Morning, kitty cat. What time is it?

Mom reaches for her phone once again, and I leap off the bed, landing on the floor with a graceful thunk.

MOM: Shit. Shit shit shit.

year one She leaps out of bed and runs to the bathroom, leaving me to ponder how much longer it will be until I am fed. I can feel myself wasting away and let out a mournful yowl to inform her of my imminent passing.

My cruel Mom is unperturbed. She soon emerges from the bathroom, grabbing the nearest pile of clothes in the floor I hadn’t made into a bed for myself, and fits them over her body. I muster my remaining strength for a sprint to my food bowls and yowl once again, reminding her of her starving child.

MOM: Hang on, Lucky. Gimme a minute. I’m gonna be late for class, gonna be late again…

year one Now fully dressed, Mom clops around the house in her loud shoes, throwing objects into her bag. Wallet. Keys. My mortal enemy, that heartless thief of her time and attention: the laptop. Some books. A water bottle.

By the looks of her haul, it would be yet another day she would be gone for hours at a time. It hadn’t always been like this. When I first came home, her hours were shorter. She would leave after daylight and return well before nightfall, in time for us to eat our dinners together in front of the television. But these days she leaves shortly after daybreak and returns well after dark.

year one She hoists the bag onto her back and slips into her shoes at the front door.

MOM: Alright Lucky, I’m gonna be gone all day again. I love you, be good!

Wait! My bowls are emptier than a dog’s skull cavity! I’ll starve to death before then.

I scamper towards the door, but I’m too slow. She shuts the door behind her and locks it before I can fully express my protest. As the sounds of her frantic footsteps get quieter and quieter, the dread sets in. I’m going to starve. All I have to look forward to is imminent death. If I weren’t frozen to the ground in mourning, I would set about the house looking for a cozy place to spend my last hours before expiring.

year one But no sooner than resigning myself to my grizzly fate, the footsteps return, more frantic this time. Clicking noises come from the front door, as they always do when Mom comes and goes—and she bursts back inside, face pale and eyes wide.

MOM: Lucky, oh my god, Lucky, I’m sooooo sorry. Mama is so sorry. Shit.

Am I saved?

year one But no sooner than resigning myself to my grizzly fate, the footsteps return, more frantic this time. Clicking noises come from the front door, as they always do when Mom comes and goes—and she bursts back inside, face pale and eyes wide.

MOM: Lucky, oh my god, Lucky, I’m sooooo sorry. Mama is so sorry. Shit.

Am I saved?

year one Mom throws her bag down at the door and rushes into the kitchen. She stoops down to grab my food bowls, and my heart leaps in joy. My energy has returned, I feel like a kitten again. I sprint after her and rub my cheeks against her shins, shedding my little silver hairs all over her dark jeans.

MOM: You were so patient this morning, I almost forgot. I’m sorry, baby boy. I’m a bad mama.

year one I pause my rubbing to look up at her. She’s at the counter as usual, cracking open the can, freeing its heavenly beefy scent to run free over the wind, tantalizing me and my rumbling tummy. But I can see an unfamiliar shame in her darkened eyes, a heaviness looming over her like a dark cloud.

You’re not a bad mama. I let out a quiet mewl, and give her an approving nip on the legs. You’re my one and only. I love you, Mom.

year one She looks down at me and offers me a regretful smile. Perhaps she understood my forgiveness. Perhaps she knows it’s not hard to earn it. She knows I’m wrapped around her finger. Especially when she breaks out the beef liver Fancy Feast.

MOM: Look, it’s your favorite.

She sets the now-filled bowl down on my dinner mat, and I’m shoving my face into the mound of meat before the ceramic clinks on the floor. I’m halfway through it before she returns with a bowl full of fresh water.

MOM: Definitely going to be late now, but it can’t be helped.

year one She strokes my head, scratching me in my favorite behind my ears. If I weren’t face-deep in Fancy Feast, I might purr. I love you, Mom, but now I’m busy. I’ll see you later.

Mom grabs her bag once again and leaves quietly while I finish my breakfast. I live to see another day. She won’t come home to a pile of neglected cat bones. For that, I’m sure we are both grateful.

year one year one After I finish my breakfast, I soak up the morning on the bedroom windowsill. Mom has been growing cat grass there for me, and it makes a great palette cleanser. Puts me right to sleep on a warm sunny day like this one. It will be one of many naps I take before Mom gets home.

It’s just the two of us here. Mom is always saying she wishes we could move into a bigger space so I would have more room to run and play. I have no way of telling her that I am more than grateful to no longer be in a kennel, to have space to run and frolic and occasionally nibble at her fake plants.

year one As evening begins to fall, I know that it will be a while longer before Mom comes home to feed me dinner and settle in for the night. I like to give myself a partial to full bath in the warmth of the afternoon sun, when it beams down and dries my soft fur. When twilight falls, I take time to play with my toys and indulge in the thrill of the hunt—even if the hunt is just a delightfully tossable fuzzy mouse.

To my surprise, my bath is interrupted. Before I can finish licking down my bottom, I’m stirred by the familiar clicks of the door. Mom must be home early!

MOM: Luckyyyyy!

year one I abandon my butt bath before she’s had a chance to remove her shoes. These days, she’s rarely back this early—and I am overjoyed, to say the least. When Mom comes home early, we have that much more time on the couch together before bedtime. And that means more pets for me. It’s a win/win.

MOM: Awww, hey, kitty cat.

She squats down and scoops me up into her arms. I cling to her chest, much like I did on the first day we met at the pet store. Though I am heavier and she has to use both hands to hold me, I still find a place to nuzzle my face against her neck.

year one Mom leans her head back, closing her eyes as our the tips of our noses meet. She calls these little moments “kisses”, and though I found them strange at first, I now find myself craving them. Mom may be a bit strange, but the warmth from her chest tells a different story.

MOM: I missed you. Have you forgiven me for messing up this morning?

For almost starving me to death? Of course, Mom. I’d forgiven you the moment you cracked open that can.

year one She carries me gingerly to the couch, and lays me down on my favorite blanket.

MOM: Let me get my leftovers and then I’ll come sit with you.

I spend a good two minutes spinning in circles on my blanket on the couch. It’s hard to get comfortable, especially when I’ve been placed. Of course, this is where I would have sat regardless of whether Mom had laid me down here or not—but one must maintain the appearance of dignity, and visibly fret over such indiscretions.

year one While Mom is fixing her dinner, her phone rings.

MOM: Hey Dad. No, class was canceled tonight, and it’s been a rough week, so I’m home with Lucky about to eat dinner. … Yeah, I’m in school again. For my master’s.

She sounds even more exhausted than she did this morning.

MOM: I’ll try to be there for Thanksgiving, but I’m not sure yet. That’s still about six months away. Either way, money’s going to be tight between airfare, airport parking, and a sitter for Lucky. … Lucky’s my cat I got last year, remember? I send you pictures of him sometimes. … Yes, that cat!

She breaks into a relieved smile.

year one MOM: I think he gets lonely sometimes, but he’s a sweetheart. You would love him. I’ve been hoping he’ll start sleeping in my bed with me, but he’s stubborn about sleeping in his cat bed.

Did my ears deceive me? Mom had never asked me to sleep in her bed. But how I’d craved to snuggle her and her warmth through the colder nights! I glance at the bedroom through the cracked door. The bed is inviting as always, messy, with its myriad of pillows and scrunched blankets. The perfect place for a cat and his sleepy mom.

MOM: Hey, hang on a second.

Mom lays her phone down and retrieves her meal from the microwave. The smell of chicken wafts through our home, and I can feel my stomach rumbling once again. I’ve half a mind to dash into the kitchen and beg for a taste, but I only just got comfortable…

year one MOM: You still there, Dad? … My chicken parm is ready, so I’m going to get off here and eat my dinner. But I’ll call you later this week. And I’ll send you a text on Tuesday morning to remind you to wish Mom a happy birthday. Love you too. Bye.

Mom and I spend a cozy evening on the couch, watching something on TV. I never know what it is, but the colors and sounds are enough to keep me engaged until I eventually doze off next to her, purring and absorbing her warmth. I tend to dread the moment when she yawns and the TV goes black; that is when she retires to her bed and I make my rounds around the house, patrolling for intruders before making my way to my own bed in the corner of her room under my condo.

year one year one But tonight is different. While Mom is in the bathroom rubbing stuff on her face, I make myself as comfortable as can be at the foot of her bed—cozy but still ready to flee at a moment’s notice if she rejects my presence.

When she leaves the bathroom, she spots me and her eyes go wide. My heart seizes in my chest; what if she doesn’t want me here after all? What if she objects to my hair in her sleeping space? My wanton claws and their tendency to find her toes? My sweet pink toes?

year one My fears appear to be unfounded. Mom says nothing, but she smiles as she lumbers towards me in her pajamas. She lifts the bedclothes gingerly, as if trying to make as little movement as possible. When she slips into the bed, she takes care not to disturb me in my corner of the mattress. Her smile never falters for even a second.

MOM: You finally ready to sleep on the bed, Lucky?

Mom’s voice is below a whisper. She turns off her bedside lamp, leaving the room in pitch dark other than the glow of street lights from outside the window.

year one MOM: Good night, kitty. I love you.

I breathe a sigh of relief, and unfurl my stance, stretching my mighty legs and claws. I love you too, Mom.

When she wakes up in the morning, I will have moved up the bed and curled up against her warm stomach, and we will be so happy that we won’t be able to fathom a time when we lived differently.

year one Lucky. year two These days, Mom is home even less than she was the season before. She will drop by the apartment in the mid-afternoon, throw down her books and bag, and change into a grease-stained uniform and apron that smells deliciously of meat. Though I love the smell of her evening clothes, I hate the face she makes when she puts them on. It’s one of sadness, exhaustion, and heartbreak. And I know when she puts them on that she will soon leave the house again and return late into the night.

Today is no different. She pours some of my kibble into a bowl, with a promise that it’s only to tide me over until she gets home from work and can open up my can. I reassure her that it’s okay with a gentle meow.

year two year two After Mom dresses and feeds me, she roots around in the pantry for food. It’s rather barren these days. From behind her, I can see the contents of the shelves: my bag of kibble, my cans, my treats. A jar of something Mom calls “peanut butter”. She frowns and checks the fridge: a protein shake, and chilled coffee. Her face falls and her tummy rumbles.

Mom checks her phone.

MOM: My check should come through on Friday. The protein shake and cold brew should get me through work and studying tonight, and I can drop by the food bank in the morning for some ramen packs to tide me over until payday.

year two I stare up at her, hoping she’ll meet my gaze. If she’s hungry, I’m happy to share. There are plenty of kibbles to go around.

She takes the protein shake out of the fridge, and gives it a stir before chugging it. It’s not until she wipes the milk off her lips that she sees me staring up at her, eyes pleading with her to eat something more than milk and powder.

MOM: Don’t worry, Lucky. We’ve got plenty of cans. I could stand to lose some weight anyway.

year two I meow desperately, before knocking one of my kibble bits out of the bowl and nudging it in her direction.

MOM: Come on dude, that’s for eating. We’ve got toys over on the couch. I promise I’ll play with you before we go to bed tonight.

Defeated, I watch as she picks it up and puts it back in my bowl.

Mom pours coffee into her mug and lets out a bereaved sigh before putting her shoes on.

MOM: See you tonight, Luckster.

year two When Mom returns later in the evening, she takes off her shoes to reveal feet that are throbbing red, swollen, and blistered. I watch as she affixes bandages to the raw spots on her heels and toes—a process she’s made into quick work since becoming a regular on the schedule at her job.

I don’t want to rush her, but I do hope she keeps to her promise to play tonight. But when she’s done bandaging her feet, she does not make her way towards my toys, but instead, to the table, where there are stacks upon stacks of books and notebooks. Where she’s spent every night for the past two seasons, typing away on her computer into the wee hours of the night.

year two Sometimes she falls asleep with her head on her keyboard. On those nights, I sleep in the living room on the couch, only a few feet away, where we can still be together even when we are apart.

I cuddle my toy on the couch as the minutes pass. The clicking of the keys, the turning of book pages, the gulps of coffee continue well into the night. She rewards herself with a spoonful of peanut butter every hour, on the hour.

I’m in the middle of my third catnap of the night when Mom shuts her laptop for the night, startling me out of my sleep.

year two I jump up, ready to play. But Mom seems to have forgotten her promise. She puts her half-empty cup of coffee into the fridge before slumping towards the bathroom. My heart hurts, but I can’t bring myself to complain. While Mom brushes her teeth and washes her face, I bat my toy around halfheartedly, hoping to tire myself out enough for a good night’s sleep. I get so engrossed in my play that I miss it when Mom finally gets into bed—that is, until I hear sniffling coming from the bedroom.

year two I jump up, ready to play. But Mom seems to have forgotten her promise. She puts her half-empty cup of coffee into the fridge before slumping towards the bathroom. My heart hurts, but I can’t bring myself to complain. While Mom brushes her teeth and washes her face, I bat my toy around halfheartedly, hoping to tire myself out enough for a good night’s sleep. I get so engrossed in my play that I miss it when Mom finally gets into bed—that is, until I hear sniffling coming from the bedroom.

year two year two I drop my toy and pad gently towards the bedroom, where Mom is laying in the dark, tears streaming down her cheeks and catching the light of the streetlights outside our window. Aside from the occasional snotty sniffle, her cries are silent.

Cats can’t cry, but Mom never goes to bed without telling me good night. I may not be able to cry, but I know that Mom is sad, and Mom is hurting, and Mom is hungry.

If I could go out for a hunt, I could bring her home some dinner. But she is adamant about keeping me indoors. All I can do is offer to take some of the pain away. I leap into bed with her, and look for a way to cozy up against her belly. She snorts when I put her butt in my face as I turn around and around trying to get comfortable.

year two MOM: Thaaaanksssh, Lucky.

Her words are hoarse and spoken through a stuffy nose. I finally settle against her chest, firing up my loudest purr. I am a vacuum, ready to absorb her sadness and take away the pain. She lays her hands on my body, stroking my fur through more silent weeping.

MOM: I promisshhed to play with you tonight, didn’t I.

She wipes her boogery nose with a handkerchief from the nightstand. Her voice clears up slightly, and for a brief moment, the tears cease.

year two MOM: I’m sorry, kitty cat. Mama is just so tired. Tomorrow I don’t have any classes. Just a double at work, and I’ll be home in time for dinner.

I nuzzle Mom’s cheeks. Perhaps I am helping after all. Mostly, I just want her to know that she is forgiven for missing playtime tonight. All I want from her is her time, when she’s able to give it. I know she wants to. And though I may not understand why she has to leave all the time, I know that she would always rather be at home with me. That’s what she tells me.

But the tears start flowing again. Did I do something wrong?

year two MOM: I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m so hungry. All Mama’s money is going to rent and tuition bills. Goddamn, you don’t know what that means, you’re a cat. I wish I was a cat too. It seems easier.

She’s right. Life is pretty easy for me. But I’ve seen street cats out our window before. They, too, are hungry—judging by the way their ribs jut out from beneath their fur and the way they scour the dumpsters for scraps. It’s a sobering reminder for me that despite what Mom is sacrificing for me, I have the life full of joy I always wanted. I’ve lived up to my name; I’m lucky.

year two Mom sighs. I can see she’s closed her eyes. Sleep is setting in.

MOM: It won’t be like this forever, Lucky. Just two more months and I’ll be done with my thesis. I know you don’t understand what any of that means, but it just means things are going to get better. And all this’ll be worth it.

I close my eyes too. I may not know what a thesis is, or be able to conceive of what a “month” feels like, but I know when Mom feels hope that I should feel it too.

She drifts off into a deep sleep not long after, and so do I.

year two Lucky. year three Mom was right. The loneliness, the pain, the hunger—none of it lasted, not forever. Things changed for the better, for both of us.

prologue year three Except for that one long trip in the car. If there’s one place I hate being, it’s in a cage—and Mom kept me in mine for what felt like days. We left after the sun came up and arrived at what Mom called “our new home” just after sundown. There, she carried me inside and immediately poured me a fresh box.

Thank goodness, too—I’d been holding it all day. I didn’t sleep well that night amongst the unfamiliar smells and Mom’s weary snores, but at first light, I began the long task of cautiously exploring my new, larger domain—and claiming every last nook and cranny for myself. Sure, I didn’t see any other cats around, but who’s to say none would break in and intrude on my new territory? I owed it to Mom to rub my cheeks on every wall in the house. And after that, I settled in well. Despite what Mom might say, I’m quite easy to please.

year three These days, Mom and I get to spend more time together. She wakes in the morning, leaves, and is back before dark.

Some days she doesn’t leave home at all, opting instead to spend the day glued to her computer and engrossed in phone calls with unfamiliar voices. I love those days. I’ll catch the sunlight from my perch in the window while she works. She makes herself turkey sandwiches for lunch and always gives me a bite of the bird. And after she closes her laptop, she’ll get out her mat and we’ll do yoga stretches together on the living room floor.

I should say, she does yoga. I will sit on the corner and watch, and occasionally pause to lick at my own crotch. (I love her and all, but if she were smart, she would do the same for herself once in awhile.)

year three Today is the kind of day with plenty of light but no sunshine—just daylight filtered through a hefty cover of autumn clouds. I feel a chill run down my spine when I leap into the window and my bare paw pads touch the cold wood of the sill. A delicate chill emanates from the windowpane, and outside, I can see a breeze lifting the dying red leaves off the trees and laying them to rest in piles on the street.

Mom is relaxing. Her computer is put away, her phone is buried in a drawer, and she’s wrapped up in a blanket on the couch while the fire roars. I will join her as soon as I get bored of watching the yard, but—

year three Today is the kind of day with plenty of light but no sunshine—just daylight filtered through a hefty cover of autumn clouds. I feel a chill run down my spine when I leap into the window and my bare paw pads touch the cold wood of the sill. A delicate chill emanates from the windowpane, and outside, I can see a breeze lifting the dying red leaves off the trees and laying them to rest in piles on the street.

Mom is relaxing. Her computer is put away, her phone is buried in a drawer, and she’s wrapped up in a blanket on the couch while the fire roars. I will join her as soon as I get bored of watching the yard, but—

year three year three Speak of the devil! A figure darts across the browning grass, towards the big tree. My eyes go wide and I turn my ears back, scanning for the source of the motion.

It’s a squirrel—a rather hefty, tasty-looking one who’s doubtlessly preparing himself for the first frost. He’s carrying an acorn in his mouth.

I can’t help it. My blood churns at the mere sight of him. I’ve never had to kill for my food, yet my body yearns to tear him apart. I feel as hungry as if I’ve gone a lifetime without eating. The worst part is, I know there’s no way to get to him. I am in here, and he is out there. Now he’s looking around, fool that he is. He’s in the yard with his nut, biding his time before carrying it to his den.

year three I begin to chirp furiously. I know from experience that the damned thing can’t hear me, and it’s maddening. I can hear Mom giggle from the couch.

MOM: What’s up, Lucky? Is the cardinal back?

“The cardinal” is what she calls the infuriatingly rude bird that sometimes perches on the feeder in the yard. He’s got bright red plumage, with an extraordinarily crunchable orange beak—and yet he too remains out of my reach.

No, Mom, it’s a squirrel. A plump, delicious meal scampering around in my yard, so close yet so far. And you spare me no pity. What a shame.

year three My helpless chirps grow more dire as the moments pass. Mom chuckles and sets her coffee down on the table before coming to investigate my misery.

MOM: Ohh, Mr. Squirrel.

She taps on the window.

MOM: Psspsspss! Heyyyy, Mr. Squirrel! Look over here!

year three The tapping gets his attention. I make mental notes to throw myself against the window next time to startle him. The squirrel must spot me in all of my fearsome glory, bearing down on him menacingly from my perch—and he flees into the tree with his nut, no doubt putting it away for stuffing his gullet later on. Disgusting thing.

MOM: The cardinal might be gone for the winter already. There won’t be a lot of critters for you to watch this winter, Lucky.

She strokes me under my chin. I appreciate it, though I cannot take my gaze off the tree in case the rodent returns.

MOM: The consequences of moving up north.

year three Our tender moment is interrupted by the ringing of Mom’s phone.

MOM: Hi, Mom.

I learned not too long after Mom brought me home that Mom has a mom too. I wonder if Mom misses her mom. I would miss my mom.

Mom trudges over to the couch and sits down. I don’t know what to make of the garbled sounds that come out of her phone, but Mom isn’t smiling, so that says a lot already.

MOM: I know. But he was pretty lucid when we talked on Wednesday. He knew the day… and told me about the dinner you cooked. … He did start talking about Aunt Patty at one point. In the present tense. Then he corrected himself and changed the subject to playing with the dogs.

year three Mom rubs her temples. She is visibly affected by the profound sadness that only comes when she talks to “Mom” or “Dad” on the phone.

MOM: We could get him a nurse. But I know he never wanted that. I don’t want him to get mad. And I don’t know if it’s that bad yet.

I leap down from the windowsill and approach the couch. I’ve grown astute at knowing when Mom needs my companionship.

MOM: I’ll do some research.

year three She throws a hand up, looking defeated.

MOM: It’s not like I’ve got anyone to hang out with here, except Lucky. Hey, my good boy. Yeah, he just got on the couch with me. … I haven’t met anyone. Everyone at work around my age is a church person. Like church twice a week, and lunch after Sunday service, and Bible study on Thursdays… Yeah, not exactly my crowd. Maybe yours.

A small smirk twists at her lips. The turn in conversation seems to have helped just a bit. There’s a long pause as she listens to more of the phone’s garbled noise.

MOM: I stopped having hobbies in grad school. You try finding time to cross-stitch between five-hundred pages of reading and a fifty-page thesis. … I guess I could pick up something new. … Eh, maybe.

year three Mom sighs.

MOM: Keep me posted on Dad, okay? … Love you too.

For the rest of the night, Mom and I stay cuddled on the couch, except for when Mom gets up to greet the man who brings the deliciously meat-laden pizza. There’s little better than spending the evening with your mom, luxuriating by the fire while she plucks pepperonis off her slice and feeds them to you one by one. Except for when she decides you’ve had enough and tells you you’re getting “chonky”. Rude.

year three But for all of my joy, Mom remains subdued. Though we’ve found a new happiness in our new home, there’s still a pain lingering over our tiny family. Our home is too large for just the two of us.

year three The next day, Mom leaves in the morning and returns shortly after with large bags full of… things. Things she explicitly tells me are not toys, not for me. Which is a strange thing to say. I figure she would understand by now that everything in the house belongs to me, except that which I do not want. Like the vacuum cleaner.

She unpacks her shopping haul. An easel that she sets up next to my favorite perching window, where we’d watched the squirrel the day before. A pristine white canvas to lay against it. A tarp to protect our beautiful, furball-laden living room floor. Paintbrushes of all sizes. Small tubes of paint in an array of colors.

year three year three I watch, intrigued, as Mom sets up her painting area. She moves a stool over to her easel so that she can sit and face out the window. I like the idea—at least until she uncaps the paint, and the revolting scent of acrylics begin to waft through the apartment. I now wonder if she’s trying to kill me.

I file a complaint with an injurious yowl.

MOM: It’s not time for food yet, Lucky.

As always, my grievances fall on deaf ears.

I leave Mom to her painting and retire to my second favorite window in the bedroom. To her credit, she does crack open one of the windows shortly after squeezing dollops of paint onto her palette. The scent must have finally overwhelmed her weak human nose. The stink dissipates while I nap.

year three year three When I awaken hours later, the autumn sun is setting, and Mom is still at her stool. The bright white canvas has been transformed into a picturesque landscape mirroring our view from the window. The dull browns, grays, and fading greens of late autumn lie in terrific contrast to Mom’s interpretation of a bright red bird: the dreadful cardinal, perched on his trove of seed.

The cardinal in the painting does not move in twitchy jerks like our daily visitor. He is still. No more than a lawn ornament, like a scarecrow. Or in this case, an annoycat.

More importantly than what is on the canvas is what I see on Mom’s face. There is a sense of genuine peace that seems so rare even in our newfound stability and happiness. The kind of peace she bears when I deign to purr upon her chest, or when she gets a phone call from someone who is neither Mom nor Dad but another occasional ringer, someone she calls “Jessica”.

year three She’s closed the windows that were cracked to free the smell, and it’s returned. I wrinkle my nose, but stifle yet another yowl.

MOM: Now it’s dinner time.

I jump for joy and trot towards my food bowls as she sets her brushes down in her cup of water and removes her apron. So far, the stinky colors have yet to diminish Mom’s attentiveness and devotion. And if they’re making Mom smile, then I can’t complain too much. The more things we find that can make Mom smile, the better.

year three Lucky. year four Lately, I’ve been meeting some new humans.

Me, I haven’t changed. I’m still here all the same. My fur is sleek and shiny as ever, with my magnificent tabby stripes laying a beautiful pattern over my shades of gray and white. I still go nuts over a can of Fancy Feast. I still watch for the cardinal every single day, and was more excited than I’m willing to admit when he finally returned in the spring.

I still love Mom, of course. But sometimes I wonder if I’m enough for her.

year four These days, when Mom comes home in the early evening, she will feed me but skip dinner herself. After feeding me, she retires to her bathroom and spends an obscene amount of time painting her face. (Luckily, her face paints don’t stink like the other paints.) She changes her clothes, spritzes herself with an overpoweringly sweet perfume, and then leaves again until late.

A few times, she’s left me waiting all night. I wait all night for her to come back home and get in bed, but she never does. I end up dozing off in my cat bed by the window, not roused again until daybreak when I hear the lock of the door rustle and she returns, makeup smeared and hair disheveled. I would be concerned, but she’s usually in a good mood after these nights, so I’ve given up on my whining. Especially since I still get my breakfast on time.

year one One night, she returned long after dark with a stranger. Now, I don’t consider myself a scaredy cat, but it’s been just Mom and I for so long that it’s always a bit unnerving when I meet someone new. As soon as I heard the odd voice and the too-many footsteps in the hallway, I fled to my favorite hiding spot-slash-vantage point: a nook in the living room entertainment center. I’m stupidly proud of the collection of hair I’ve shed into it at this point.

MOM: Heeeeeey, Luckyyyy! We’re home!

Who is “we”?

year four “We” is Mom and a woman in a short, flashy dress with her face painted much like Mom does hers. Her stilettos make the most annoying clack on our wood floor. I am surprised Mom is letting her walk across the house in them; normally she asks visitors to remove their shoes at the door.

MOM: Lucky’s my cat. I might’ve told you already…?! But he is, he’s my cat.

WOMAN: Oh my god I know! I know. I love cats.

Their voices are oddly slurred, borderline unintelligible. Mom is leaning against the stranger’s shoulder in the kitchen.

year four MOM: He prolly won’t come out while you’re here.

WOMAN: It’s soooo weird when they like… watch.

Mom lays her hands on the stranger’s waist before going in for a kiss. One thankfully unlike any kind she’s ever given me.

I feel like I’m seeing something I’m not supposed to be seeing. The smells in the air are different, too—undeniably musky and frankly, not my favorite.

Mom smiles when she breaks away from the kiss.

MOM: If you stay for breakfast, he’ll prolly come out then.

year four I’m grateful when they move their activities to the bedroom and close the door. I was already thinking I’d like to sleep on my living room cat tower tonight.

The stranger does not stay for breakfast. She departs in the morning, leaving Mom standing in the kitchen in her bathrobe.

MOM: You have my number, right? I’m still totally down for going to that show.

WOMAN: … Oh yeah, yeah sure. I’ll text you later this week, I’ve got a lot of work stuff going on. You know how it is.

MOM: Oh yeah, of course…

year four Mom is no longer making eye contact with the stranger. I can tell from my cubby in the living room that she’s uncomfortable.

MOM: Can I get you a Lyft?

WOMAN: I’ve already got one coming. … Looks like he’s pulling up now. Anyway, it was nice meeting you, Lucy.

MOM: Laurie.

WOMAN: Gawwwwd, my hangover brain. Laurie. Talk to you later.

year four Mom waves a halfhearted goodbye as the stranger takes her leave. She spends the rest of the day with an ice pack on her head. Neither of us hear from the stranger or her loud high heels ever again.

A few months pass before I meet another new person. This time it is a man, and not the one that sometimes comes by dressed in flannel, with a belt of tools around his waist and heavy muddy boots on his feet. That man comes to fix the sink when it won’t stop dripping, dripping, dripping, or the toilet when it gurgles menacingly from its corner of the bathroom. And this man is not him.

He sneezes just a few minutes after entering the house.

year four MAN: Uh-oh.

MOM: What? Oh no, are you allergic to cats?!

The man nods.

MAN: Yeah…

Mom’s face turns red.

MOM: Oh my gosh, I’m so sorry. I usually remember to ask. I have a cat named Lucky. He’s probably hiding in the TV console.

year four How did she discover my primo hiding place?!

MOM: How bad is it?

MAN: Oh it’s not that bad…

He sneezes again. Mom places her palm over her face.

MOM: Your eyes are puffing up by the second. We need to get you some Benadryl.

MAN: We can go back to my place. It’s on the other side of town, but I don’t mind giving you a ride home in the morning if you don’t mind me being a bit boogery on the ride over.

year four Mom glances over at my hiding spot. I’m certain she can’t see me, but she must know I am here nonetheless.

MOM: Let me feed Lucky and grab some fresh clothes, and I’ll meet you outside.

Mom feeds me and departs before I have a chance to rub up on her legs. When she returns in the morning, she’s smiling. Disheveled and distracted by constant beeps from her phone, but smiling nonetheless.

I meet the man a couple more times, briefly, when he says something about “having taken my pill.” And then one day, just as I’d started to like the guy, he vanishes. Mom doesn’t say why. But when she’s on the phone crying to her mom and eating ice cream right out of the pint, I get the distinct feeling that we didn’t need him around anyway.

year four MOM: I’m over dating, Mom, I’m over it. You either get ghosted or cheated on. It’s a waste of time. … I’m ready to become a crazy cat lady. Maybe Lucky could use a sibling or five.

I glance up at her from her lap. I had siblings, once upon a time. My birth mother presumably was able to rescue them from the storm where she had failed with me. All I can remember is that they were milk hogs. I mewl at her gently, as if to say, “Hell no.”

year four But life has a funny way of giving you exactly what you need, even if it’s not what you think you want. Despite Mom’s protests and promises to never date again, she brings home another man a couple months later. I know by now not to get attached to them. I do not trust him with Mom’s heart any more than I trust the groundhog that I sometimes spot digging in the neighbor’s yard.

MAN: Soooo, Laurie, I am totally ready to see this cat. Is my mind gonna be blown? Is he going to be even cuter than he is in pictures?

If I could blush, I certainly would. My whiskers wrinkle in embarrassment. Mom shows pictures of me to strangers? And they think I’m cute?! Well, who wouldn’t—but still!

year four But life has a funny way of giving you exactly what you need, even if it’s not what you think you want. Despite Mom’s protests and promises to never date again, she brings home another man a couple months later. I know by now not to get attached to them. I do not trust him with Mom’s heart any more than I trust the groundhog that I sometimes spot digging in the neighbor’s yard.

MAN: Soooo, Laurie, I am totally ready to see this cat. Is my mind gonna be blown? Is he going to be even cuter than he is in pictures?

If I could blush, I certainly would. My whiskers wrinkle in embarrassment. Mom shows pictures of me to strangers? And they think I’m cute?! Well, who wouldn’t—but still!

year four year four MOM: Yes. You need to brace yourself for this one. He’s even cuter than Sylvia.

MAN: Okay, don’t get too carried away there.

MOM: Hey, I’m just spitting facts.

Mom wanders towards my cubby in the entertainment center.

MOM: Lucky! Kitty kitty kitty? Can Mama get you to come out and meet Lee?

I have to admit; this one has piqued my curiosity. I poke my head out from my hiding space and look up at Mom with cautious eyes.

year four MOM: Heeeeeeey, buddy.

She pets my head in that way that gets me every time.

MOM: C’mon. I gotcha.

year four She lifts me up under my arms and lays me against her shoulder. I hook my claws into her sweatshirt and lock eyes with “Lee.” He is smiling, to my surprise.

LEE: Oh my god, okay, yeah. He’s cute. I admit it. Not cuter than Sylvia. But he’s like second-place cute. And that’s high praise.

The indignity! I give a disapproving yowl to let Lee know just how well this is going so far. Like a roller coaster, one might say.

year four Mom carries me towards Lee. Lee extends his fingers to me and I give them a sniff for inspection. They smell like chicken, and I respect that.

LEE: Hi Lucky. Can I pet you?

I pointedly do not look at Lee, but at everything else around him. It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no. And with humans, they usually take that as a yes. He gives me the gentlest of scritches on my neck, in my favorite spot—damn it, Mom must have told him exactly where I like to be cuddled. If he keeps this up I’ll be butter in their arms for the rest of the night.

year four I expect that when Mom sets me down, she and Lee will attend the usual routine of locking me out of the bedroom until late at night, getting up to whatever she gets up to with the people she brings around. But not tonight. They settle on the couch with me, where Lee eagerly tells Mom about his favorite horror movies over their dishes of Chinese takeout. And I can’t even be mad about all the delicious smells when they let me lick the remainder of the eggy, brothy chicken soup from the bottom of the container.

Tonight, I do not fall asleep in Mom’s arms, because for the first time, she is falling asleep in someone else’s. They doze off in a tangle of arms and legs on the couch, and I watch from my blankets next to the fireplace. Her contentment is my contentment.

Maybe Lee will turn out to be a good one.

year four Lucky. year five Though Lee came and went many times after the night we met, there came one day when he arrived and never left again. Not for long, anyway. I spent that day in my hideaway cubby while he and Mom dragged in dozens of boxes in all shapes and sizes filled with all sorts of new things with interesting smells.

There was a distinct musk to the linens. I could make out the scent of Lee: a warm, herbal scent barely masking his natural stench. Stronger than Lee’s scent, though, was an entirely unfamiliar one that I could not place. When I caught a whiff, my hair stood up straight on my back for reasons I could not explain. One of the boxes of bedclothes stank so strongly of this weird scent that I hissed at the box and fled across the house, leaving a cloud of fur in my wake.

year five LEE: What’s gotten into you, Lucky?

MOM: He never hisses like that. Unless we’re at the vet.

LEE: He must think they smell funny. I’ll throw ‘em in the wash, it’s been awhile.

MOM: You didn’t wash your bedclothes before packing them?!

LEE: What? Oh Jesus, don’t look at me like that. I wasn’t gonna haul ‘em to the laundromat knowing I’d be coming in just a couple days and could use the washer here.

year five Mom purses her lips and gives Lee a disapproving frown. Lee, on the other hand, has the slightest semblance of a grin on his face, like he’s enjoying her frustration.

LEE: He’ll be fine. He’s probably just smelling my B.O.—

MOM: No he is not! He’s smelling Sylvia! And it’s freaking him out!

Lee’s smile withers.

LEE: Oh nooo… Thaaaat’s why I was supposed to wash ‘em.

year five Mom sighs.

MOM: Well, when he meets her, he’ll know exactly where she came from, I guess.

I was left to suffer with the unfamiliar stench wafting through my house for another several hours before Lee left and returned for a final time that day, carrying two small boxes and a hard crate like the one Mom puts me in to take me to the horrible, evil doctor.

That was when I discovered the source of the stench. That was when I met Sylvia.

year five year five Sylvia, as it turns out, is also a cat. An extraordinarily fluffy gray female who moves with the speed of a turtle and sleeps like it’s her job. Mom and Lee say she’s getting on in years, and that I should be gentle with her. I refuse. Not because I intend to rough her up, but because I intend to have as little to do with her as possible.

They kept her confined to the second bathroom for a few days after Lee brought her home. I was begrudgingly satisfied with the arrangement. She, the intruder, was in prison, and I, the ruler of my domain, remained free, aside from her scent and the occasional gray paws darting out from the crack under the door. Her stench remained far away from me, and I believed that maybe they would keep her locked away, with her own food bowl and her own litter box and that someday she would simply vanish, and Mom and Lee would forget she ever existed.

year five That was my ideal scenario. Until they freed her.

Mom and I are sitting together in the living room, playing with one of my favorite toys, when I hear Lee enter Sylvia’s bathroom and free her from her well-deserved solitary confinement. He emerges cradling her enormously furry body in his arms. She looks half-asleep—that is, until she spots me. I feel a shiver down my spine and immediately bow up in preparation for battle.

MOM: Shhh, Lucky, honey. It’s okay. See? That’s Sylvia. Lee’s kitty cat. Isn’t she pretty?

She is hideous.

year five Mom strokes my spine and massages my tail, no doubt trying to get me to lower my guard. I wonder if I was wrong to trust her. My own mother, and this man and his intruder! My heart shatters under the weight of betrayal.

LEE: Sylvia, this is Lucky. He’s gonna love you.

There is nothing worse than when someone presumes to speak for you.

Sylvia’s sleepy, elderly eyes widen as they finally land on mine, taking me in in all of my fearsome glory. She lets out a pained yowl and takes a swipe at Lee’s cheek. Lee winces.

MOM: Oh gosh, baby—

year five LEE: It’s fine, it’s fine, it’s just a little tap. She was declawed by her previous owners.

I didn’t know what declawing was, but I draw back upon seeing Lee’s unmarred face. Lee adjusts Sylvia in his arms and gives her a defiant kiss on the head.

Mom’s face falls as she continues petting me.

MOM: Poor Sylvia. People who do that are sick. Lucky, that means you have to play gentle with her. She’s old and she can’t use her claws.

year five I never take my eyes off Sylvia and Lee, even as Mom lifts me from the floor and carries me to the couch, where she maintains a tight hold around my body. My ears instinctively fold themselves back towards my neck in warning as Lee approaches with Sylvia, eventually settling down on the opposite end of the couch.

I growl my direst warning. Sylvia cowers against Lee’s shoulder, just as I expected. She is clearly helpless in the face of such a mighty beast.

MOM: Lucky, stop that. Shhhhh. Sylvia’s going to be your big sister from now on, and you have to be nice to her.

Big sister? More like great-great-grandma.

year five LEE: That goes for you too, Sylvia. This was his place first.

MOM: Yes, but now we’re going to be one big happy family.

Mom smiles at Lee, whose face is going redder by the minute.

LEE: Guess that’s true, huh. One big happy family living in sin.

MOM: Oh shush with that! Lucky, if I sit you down, are you gonna run away?

I make no promises.

year five It has been two months since I first met Sylvia. Though I no longer growl when she approaches, she is still the most loathsome creature on the planet. You too would be appalled if you met her. Oh yes, I’ve counted my grievances, and would present them in list form to the powers that be, if I could feel sure my efforts would not be in vain. But alas.

First—I am being forced to share my food with her.

No, I am not any hungrier than I was before. I do not think there has been a reduction in the amount of food served to me. But Mom insists that we eat together, side by side. Our faces are inches apart as we wolf down our cans of Fancy Feast. Me, on the left, with my standard formula. Sylvia on the right, with her old folks pre-chewed nonsense. Really, she should be fed through a straw. I’ve told her this, too. She found it funny! Which just makes her that much more infuriating.

At dinner, I issue her warnings before we dig in.

year five year five ME: Don’t eat my food, old woman.

SYLVIA: You’re a growing boy. I wouldn’t dream of it.

year five I do not trust her, so I barely chew my food before getting it down. I’ve also been throwing up more lately, but despite what Mom says, I do not believe these things to be related.

Second, Sylvia hogs the sunny spot next to the window.

Mom has told me I have to share. And I have been sharing, I really have. But she goes and lays down first thing in the morning after eating, and then stays there all day until there’s a cloud cover. Or until there’s rain. She’s afraid of rain and will hide under the bed for hours after a thunderstorm. If only she would do that all the time.

year five I’ve been forced to seek out other sunny spots in the house. Fortunately, the desk Lee set up in the bedroom now sits under the bedroom window, and receives direct sunlight for several hours a day—so I take my revenge by laying next to his monitor while he works. I figure if I can charm Lee as much as I’ve charmed Mom, then they will see things my way and return Sylvia from whence she came.

Occasionally, I very politely ask Sylvia to let me have a turn.

ME: Can you go away? You’ve been in my window all day.

Sylvia simply sleeps through my complaints, or stretches and rolls over defiantly.

SYLVIA: Not until you learn some manners.

year five ME: Okay, can you please go away?

SYLVIA: Close, but you’re not quite there yet. Try again tomorrow, little one.

year five Finally, and most egregiously—Sylvia is quite taken with my mother. I have awoken from a nap more than once to find her stretched out on Mom’s lap on the couch. She leaves a thick coating of gray fur everywhere she goes, so even when I do not catch them in the act, I can always tell where Sylvia has been, taking up my space and stealing the attention of my Mom.

It occurs to me that perhaps it is payback for my afternoon lounges on Lee’s desk. But she started it, so I will not be stopping.

year five One night, after Mom and Lee have gone to bed, I approach Sylvia as she’s about to enter the litter box.

ME: Hey! You were hogging Mom tonight. You have your own mom. Go sit on him.

SYLVIA: She’s my mom too, now. And Lee’s my dad. And your dad.

ME: I don’t know what a dad is.

SYLVIA: Lee is Dad. Can we please discuss this after I pee? It hurts to hold it in when you’re my age.

year five I’m taken aback by Sylvia’s frankness, and retreat to give her some privacy. She emerges a few minutes later and settles down on the rug to start licking her paws. She really is “declawed.” How embarrassing.

ME: What happened to your paws?

SYLVIA: What about them?

ME: You don’t have any claws. You must be a terrible hunter.

year five SYLVIA: I am pretty bad at hunting, yes. And I don’t know what happened to my claws. One day, a man in white helped me fall asleep at the doctor’s office, and when I woke up, my feet were bleeding and bandaged.

Ouch. Now I feel bad.

ME: Did it hurt…?

SYLVIA: It hurt after. Sometimes it still hurts…

ME: Why would someone take your claws?

year five SYLVIA: My old family used to yell at me for scratching at the furniture. I didn’t know any better… Then a couple years later, they brought me to the shelter and I never saw them again.

ME: Sounds like you’re better off without them.

Sylvia rolls over playfully.

SYLVIA: Of course. I got to be with Dad. And now I get to be with you and Mom, too. It’s a fine retirement.

ME: You don’t want to get rid of me?

year five SYLVIA: Nope. I wasn’t sure about you first, but you’re too cute to stay mad at. I had babies once, but my old family gave them all away after they were weaned… I had a son who looked just like you, except he had long fur like mine. He was my favorite.

I sit there in silence, unsure of how to respond. I’d spent Sylvia’s time with us believing she was there to displace me, that soon Mom would forget I existed. I certainly didn’t think of her as a member of my family. But she thought of me as a member of hers, like one of her sons. Like a mom.

year five SYLVIA: Even though I’m old, I still know how to have fun.

Sylvia rolls back over onto her feet, and crouches on the floor. Her butt wiggles with excitement. I barely dodge the pounce that comes next; she’s faster than she looks.

SYLVIA: I can take your bites and your scratches. Just don’t jump on me too hard… It puts too much pressure on my feet.

year five I hesitate for just a moment before thrusting myself upon her and pinning her down. We roll around for a moment, locked in a tangle of gentle bites and hisses, before she pins me down. She’s not heavy, but she has experience on her side. I’ve been beat.

SYLVIA: Just like that.

The next morning, Mom and Dad emerge from their bedroom to find the two of us sleeping side by side on the throw blanket. We aren’t cuddling, but it’s the friendliest we’ve ever been. Mom squeals with joy. I think that was the moment we became a family.

year five Lucky. year six Mom and Dad are making some changes to the house.

First, they move our scratching post out of the bedroom and into the living room. It’s not a big change, but it's an unwelcome one. What if the urge to scratch strikes in the middle of the night? I would have to walk all the way across the house to sharpen my claws. My protests go ignored, as usual.

Then, they drag in a new chair where my scratching post used to be, under the window, and drape it with cozy blankets. I soon discover it is not a very stable chair; it rocks back and forth when I first test it out. After warning Sylvia, we resolve to never rest in the unruly chair ever again.

Finally, Dad lugs in something he calls a “changing table”, a bulky thing loaded with drawers. After that, Mom spends days painting small, smiling elephants on its sides.

year six year six The strange phenomena goes unexplained until one day I join Mom on the couch after listening to her throw up all morning. I notice she’s developing a small round bump on her belly. I can’t explain it, but I am drawn to her belly and its warmth. It doesn’t feel right to lay on it, but it feels right to lay next to it. Like I have something to protect.

MOM: Hey there, Lucky boy. You gonna keep Mom company while Dad’s at work?

I rub my cheek against the bump on her belly. She smiles a smile that reaches her watery eyes.

MOM: Is he your baby too? You guys are gonna be best friends someday.

year six When I was a kitten, I fed from my birth mother’s breast alongside my siblings. She had a comforting scent, of milk and skin and joy—and there is something similar coming from Mom now. It’s particularly strong on her belly and near her chest. She begins to rub me under my chin, and I melt into a flurry of purrs.

year six Later that night, Sylvia is sitting in the window, soaking up the moonlight, when she addresses me in my bed.

SYLVIA: You understand Mom is having a baby, right? A human kitten.

ME: I guess so. They’re putting all that weird stuff in the bedroom for it.

SYLVIA: They’re very loud and need lots of attention. My old family had a baby. That’s why they got rid of me.

ME: Mom and Dad won’t get rid of us when the baby comes, right?

SYLVIA: I don’t think so.

year six I shudder and can feel my heart wither just a little in fear. Maybe that’s why they’re moving all of our stuff, because they’re planning to give us away to make room for the human kitten. When Sylvia sees me wither, she wags her tail dismissively.

SYLVIA: Oh, I don’t mean to scare you. Mom and Dad are kind. It’s just that you and I might be sticking together for awhile after the baby is here. Babies are like kittens. They’re helpless without their parents until they reach a certain age, and that means they will be busy keeping it alive.

ME: I don’t know if I like that.

year six Sylvia gets up and stretches her long, fluffy body. You can almost hear her bones creak as she moves towards me. She sits next to me and gives me an unexpected lick of the cheek. She’s never groomed me before, nor I her—but my instincts tell me to stay still and let her work some old lady magic.

A couple of minutes later, my head and neck are thoroughly cleaned in all the places I cannot reach. Sylvia begins to lick her own paws, as she often does, to relieve the soreness of her mutilated toes.

SYLVIA: That’s understandable. We might feel a bit lonely for awhile… But at least we have each other.

year six I remain quiet. Sylvia’s words are mildly comforting. Whatever I’m feeling about the baby, it’s not distress. Just a general fear of change.

ME: We can help protect the baby.

Sylvia shakes off her paws and suddenly makes as mad as a dash as she can manage for the litter box. Her legs shake slightly as she tries to climb over the small ledge, but she doesn’t make it. She cringes as she relieves herself on the rug in front of the box.

ME: Are you okay? Why did you pee outside the box?

year six It already stinks, but I know no self-respecting cat would do such a thing without a reason. Sylvia cowers over her mess, and makes a futile attempt to cover it with nothing.

SYLVIA: I… I don’t know. I tried to climb in, but my bones ache, and suddenly I couldn’t hold it any longer. I’m sorry.

I don’t know what to say. If this is part of getting old, then I am glad to be young.

year six Only a week later, the house erupts in chaos.

It happens quickly, in the evening. Mom skips dinner, saying she isn’t feeling well. I lay on the bed with her to keep her company, until she gets up to use the bathroom. Suddenly, I hear her moan in pain and cry out for Dad.

MOM: Lee! Lee!

Dad is off the couch and in the bathroom in a flash, startling poor Sylvia into her favorite hiding place in the pantry. From the bathroom, I can hear Mom begin to sob into Dad’s shirt.

MOM: There’s blood. There’s—

year six DAD: Oh god. Oh god, okay, we’re going to—going to the hospital. Come on. It’s gonna be okay. Let me help you.

A few minutes later, Mom emerges from the bathroom, pajama pants lightly tinged with blood, leaning on Dad’s shoulder, still weeping. Dad’s eyes are a bit wet, too. They leave in a hurry, and don’t return until the sun peeks over the horizon the next morning.

year six Their eyes are red, cheeks streaked with tears. When we scamper to the door, hungry for breakfast, we are denied our usual cheerful greetings. Mom leans on Dad as he silently guides her to the bedroom and tucks her into bed. They speak to each other in hushed, hoarse whispers.

DAD: I can call your mother.

MOM: No… Not yet.

year six Dad sighs and runs his hands through Mom’s messy, tousled hair.

DAD: You know she’s going to call this afternoon anyway to check up on you. I don’t… I don’t want you to have to be the one to tell her.

Mom doesn’t respond. She doesn’t even look Dad in the face; her gaze is firmly stuck to the blank wall next to the bed, as if she’s not seeing anything around her. Dad nods and turns their phones off before climbing into bed and holding Mom tight as her silent stream of tears turns to loud sobs, and then once again to silence as she drifts off to sleep.

year six year six Within a couple of months, Mom’s bump shrinks back into her belly, and the rocking chair and changing table remain as pristine as ever. Dad offers to move them into storage, but Mom cries at the mere suggestion. Dad asks if they can do something called “grief counseling,” and Mom insists she’s coping just fine with the loss of the baby and that he’s welcome to go alone if he wants.

year six Mom hasn’t been doing much since quitting her job. She comes home and immediately retires to bed, often without eating—unless Dad begs her. Sometimes she drags herself to the living room to watch television, but even her favorite shows fail to make her smile. Sylvia and I have been doing our best to keep her company. I will lay on her belly where her bump once was, keeping her warm. Sylvia will lay at her side and offer her soft tummy for rubs (a grand privilege, indeed).

Mom doesn’t get excited when she sees me like she used to, but Sylvia reassures me it’s not personal.

year six Dad keeps the house clean, feeds us, cleans up Sylvia’s occasional accidents, makes sure Mom eats, and manages to do all this while keeping his job. I wonder vaguely if he is as sad about the loss of the baby as Mom. One day I have my answer, when he leaves, and I watch him in the driveway from the window, and I see him get in the car and burst into sobs. I can’t hear him scream, but I can see it. I paw desperately at the windowpane, wishing I could climb into his lap, expecting he would drive away any moment—but he stays out there in the driveway for a good half hour, before drying his face with a handkerchief and coming back in the house.

Mom doesn’t ask him where he went.

year six DAD: Babe, I hate to ask this, but do you think your mom could loan us some money? We’re gonna be short on rent this month.

Mom looks up at him from her lumpy spot on the couch, buried in her dirty pajamas.

MOM: How is that possible?

Dad pauses and looks away, rubbing the back of his neck as if hoping to find a better answer than the truth.

year six DAD: I… Well, I don’t quite make enough, I guess. I thought we could make do on one salary, but…

He trails off.

MOM: I know… I know I need to find a new job.

Dad sits down next to her on the couch and strokes her hair.

DAD: I don’t want to push you if you aren’t ready, but… I really do need some help. If we can’t get you back to work, then I really, really need you to consider grief counseling.

year six MOM: We have the money for grief counseling, but not for the rent?

DAD: … Not what I said, Laurie.

I decide now is a good time to hide in my cubby and watch from my safe place.

DAD: We don’t have money for either. But I’d rather not put rent on a credit card.

Mom sighs. She looks as if she might cry, but nothing comes out. Perhaps she finally ran out of tears.

year six MOM: I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.

Dad softens.

DAD: What do you have against counseling, babe?

year six MOM: It’s not against it, I just… You know me. I don’t like asking for help. He’s gone, and crying about it whether it’s here or on some expensive couch in a shrink’s office isn’t going to bring him back. So why should we pay a fortune for someone to ask me over and over how I’m feeling? I feel like shit. I failed our baby. I feel guilty because I still want a baby but it’ll never be him, he’s gone. I feel like you blame me—

Dad opens his mouth to object.

year six MOM: —but I know you don’t, and that makes me mad because maybe you should, maybe you should be mad at my worthless body that killed our son! And yes, I know this is the crazy talk of someone who could benefit from seeing a therapist, but I’ve barely gone outside since September and I don’t want to start now.

Mom’s rants dissolve into blubbering and Dad wraps his arms around her, squeezing her tight through his own silent stream of tears. He holds her for what feels like an eternity before breaking away from her and planting a kiss on her forehead.

year six DAD: I’m going to make two calls, okay? One to your mom to ask her to borrow some rent money, and one to the grief counselor my coworker recommended.

MOM: Mom won’t have anything to spare… Dad’s care facility sucks up her whole retirement fund.

DAD: Then I’ll call the bank and ask for a cash advance. We’re going to get through this.

year six That night, Sylvia and I join Mom and Dad in bed as they settle in for sleep after their first meal together in months. Dad holds Mom close and whispers in her ear as she begins to doze off.

DAD: Just because Lucas passed doesn’t mean he’s not our son. He’ll always be our son.

MOM: Lucas?

DAD: … I know we hadn’t decided yet. But it just felt right. That’s how I’ve been thinking of him. He deserves a name.

year six MOM: … Lucas. That is sweet. Lucas.

DAD: Lucas is still our son, and you’ll always be his Mom. You didn’t fail him, or me. And someday we can try again, when we’re ready.

Mom nods in the dark, slowly, hesitantly.

MOM: Or we can just get more cats.

Dad laughs gently. It may be the first laughter in the household since Lucas’s passing.

year six DAD: I have a feeling that would be frowned upon by our current housemates.

Mom doesn’t laugh, but I feel her chest grow warmer from my spot at her side, so she must have mustered the softest of smiles. There’s a sense of hope and the tiniest bit of closure lingering in the air as Mom and Dad drift off to sleep in a tangle of arms and legs.

year six As for me, I’m cold. I sidle up to Sylvia and her thick, luxurious coat. Sylvia looks surprised but says nothing as I curl up next to her, tight like a cinnamon bun, and hope she accepts me. Of course she does; she wraps her feeble body around mine, and we share our heat until morning.

year six Lucky. year seven Today, Sylvia has left the house. To the vet, Mom and Dad say. Mom loads her up in her soft carrier, lined with one of those pee pad things, and drives away with her while Dad is at work. It is strange for the house to feel this empty. I haven’t been alone since Sylvia moved in almost two years ago. Even when Mom and Dad are both gone, I know Sylvia is always nearby, usually minding her own business.

And now she is not. The house is mine.

year seven Yet, I do not know what to do with it. A few years ago, I would have taken advantage of the peace to wreak some havoc. Run so fast I knock my kibble bowl over and spook myself into hiding. Zoom around the house in pursuit of my favorite plushie (shaped like what Dad calls a “spicy salmon roll”). Chew on the house plants and throw up just for the hell of it. And of course, fall asleep before they come home, and awaken just as they arrive, gazing at them through bleary eyes as they stare in horror at the mess I’ve made of the house.

Those were the good old days.

year seven Mom and Dad have been a bit happier lately, despite Sylvia’s ongoing accidents. Every week on Monday morning they leave together and return a couple of hours later, looking exhausted, but maybe a tad relieved, too. One day, Mom calls it “grief counseling.” She tells her mother on the phone that they’ve been talking to someone about the death of the baby. She says she still wants to be a mom, but doesn’t know if she’s ready.

When she says so, I rub against her legs as if to tell her she is already a mom. But Sylvia and I are very cute, so I can’t blame her for wanting more kittens. Even if they’re the fabled loud and needy human kittens.

year seven Soon, Mom returns, without Sylvia’s carrier. My heart sinks. Where is she? Am I really that worried about Sylvia? What if she doesn’t come back?

MOM: Hey, Lucky.

She picks me up and cradles me while pacing across the kitchen.

MOM: I know, I’m sorry I didn’t bring Sylvia home. She’s staying at the doctor overnight. Sylvia is old, so they need to run some tests and figure out if there’s something making her sick. And making her pee outside of your litter box. She will be home tomorrow.

year seven I nuzzle my cheek against Mom’s. My whiskers tingle as the tips brush against her warm chin.

MOM: It hasn’t been just the two of us in quite awhile now, huh? Usually Sylvia’s here too.

She sets me down and I look up at her inquisitively. She’s right; it’s been a couple of years now since Sylvia and Lee came to be a part of our family.

year seven MOM: Playtime?! Playtime!

Mom grabs my spicy salmon roll and starts juggling it in her hands. I instinctively crouch to the floor and follow the toy with my eyes. My butt is planted on the tile, wiggling, in preparation to pounce.

MOM: Catch!

She flings the toy across the kitchen and I take off running, feet sliding across the floor. I collide with my prey and snag it with my freshly sharpened claws. The soft plush is a joy to sink my teeth into for a few long moments, before I drop it again and look at Mom expectantly. She grins and walks across the kitchen to pick it up once again.

What? It’s not like I’m going to bring it to her. Cats don’t fetch.

year seven Our game continues until Mom gets a phone call.

MOM: Hey, Mom. … I’m, I’m doing okay. We’re doing okay. We had therapy yesterday and the doctor said we’re making progress.

Her gaze shifts from a neutral pensiveness to downcast.

MOM: … I don’t know when we’ll be ready to try again. That’s something we’re working on. But the—but the doctor said we might never be ready. And to be prepared for that possibility. … I mean, we do still want one. I never got my IUD put back in. But between the miscarriage and work and Sylvia’s peeing everywhere, we haven’t exactly been in the mood.

Mom cracks a smile.

year seven MOM: Well, you know and I know it’s not that easy. I promise if we decide to start trying again, you’ll be the first to know. … How are you? How’s Dad? I need to come visit, both of you.

While Mom is on the phone, I spot something moving out of the corner of my eye. It’s not my salmon roll, never my silly, utterly immobile salmon roll—but something small, dark, and low to the ground. A bug! Scampering around near the trash can. A rare treat at this time of year.

MOM: ... Yeah, I really need to come visit him. It’s just, it’s so hard… I know you know this. Last time he called me “Molly” and wanted to talk about the Clinton years. In the present tense.

year seven I’m tuning out Mom as I begin my stealthy pursuit of the intruder. They have so many eyes, and yet never seem to see me coming. I pursue the bug much like I did my sushi roll—low to the ground, with slow, deliberate movements—before going in for the pounce. I give it a good smack with my paw, sending it reeling across the kitchen floor towards Mom’s feet. Mom looks down and screeches when she sees the bug, and nearly stomps on my paw in the process.

MOM: … Aaaah, oh my god, no, sorry Mom, it’s a roach in the kitchen and Lucky’s playing with it. Jesus, cat. Hold on a second, Mom.

year seven Mom sets the phone down and attempts to shoo me away from the roach.

MOM: No! No, stop it. Stop. It.

She grabs me and I flail in her arms, furious at the snatching of my rare prey. Mom quickly tosses me onto the bed and closes me in the bedroom. I paw angrily at the door. I can’t see what she does after, but I can only assume she wanted to kill and eat it herself. That sort of thing would get her beat up in the animal kingdom.

MOM: I’ll be right back, Mom. Getting something to carry the bug out on.

year seven A few moments later, I hear Mom squeal quietly before shuffling, shuffling—and then the sound of the door opening and closing, before she shuffles back.

MOM: Alright, I got him. Look, I need to go. I still haven’t called Lee to tell him how Sylvia’s vet appointment went. Love you too—I’ll probably drive up and see Dad next weekend. Love you. Bye.

Mom frees me from my prison shortly after, but after I inspect the kitchen to see if my prey is still there, I retreat back to the bedroom to pout. With Sylvia being gone and Mom being rude, I’m feeling a bit grumpy.

year seven year seven year seven The next day, Sylvia returns, with a spot on her side shaved bare of her fur. She barely tells me hello before retiring to her favorite of the cat beds, ready to curl up and take a nap. This time, Lee is home—and he helps Mom unpack a bag I’ve never seen before.

MOM: So, Dr. Nguyen said these need to be kept cold. We can get more syringes at CVS.

Mom grabs a handful of tiny glass bottles and transfers them to refrigerator. Dad is watching, and nodding along. He grabs the single remaining glass bottle and lifts it up, turning it over in his hand and examining it in the light.

year seven MOM: We give her insulin after each feeding. She’s fairly small, so she only needs about two and a half to three insulin units, twice a day. He helped me administer a dose before we left to show me how to do it.

Dad raises his eyebrows.

DAD: Did she have a fit?

MOM: Nope, the vet said she did really well. She squirmed a bit and yowled when she was pricked, but she didn’t run away.

year seven Mom holds up a sharp, pointy thing. Whatever it’s for, I don’t want it near me—or Sylvia.

DAD: And how are we supposed to monitor her blood sugar?

MOM: He ordered us a tester. It clips her ear and sends the info to an app so we can interpret the numbers.

Dad turns the bottle of insulin over once more before transferring it to the fridge with the others. I still don’t know what’s going on, so I decide to ask Sylvia herself. She’s not fully asleep yet, so that means it’s an okay time to bother her.

year seven ME: Sylvia, what are Mom and Dad talking about? Why were you gone overnight?

She cracks one eye open.

SYLVIA: The doctor poked me with a bunch of things. He said they were trying to figure out why I’ve been peeing outside the box.

ME: Isn’t it because your bones hurt from being old?

SYLVIA: Sort of. The doctor called it ‘diabetes.’

year seven ME: Diabeetus?

SYLVIA: Dad and Mom have to stick a pokey sharp thing in the back of my neck every time I eat. It’s supposed to help me feel better and pee less.

I lay down next to her.

ME: Does it hurt?

SYLVIA: It doesn’t hurt as much as it’s been hurting me when I jump and land on my feet. Even more than it used to.

year seven There is a long pause while I consider.

ME: So… The sharp things will make you feel better.

Sylvia closes her eyes once again. For the first time, to me, she looks truly aged. Not just because she moves slowly. Not just because even her gray fur is going gray. For the first time, she looks exhausted, even achy.

SYLVIA: That’s what they said.

I give her a gentle lick on the forehead.

ME: Will I get diabeetus when I’m old?

year seven SYLVIA: I hope not. I hope you will live a very long and healthy life.

ME: With you? And Mom and Dad?

SYLVIA: With Mom and Dad. Probably not with me.

I understand now what I am seeing. I am seeing, for the first time, Sylvia as she is: a cat in the twilight years of her life, content to enjoy things as they are with as little pain as possible. It is somehow sad, frightening, and comforting at the same time.

ME: I love you, Sylvia.

Sylvia’s whiskers twitch in delight as she dozes off.

SYLVIA: I love you too, Lucky.

year seven Two months later, Sylvia’s accidents have mostly stopped, and she is more playful while still getting plenty of sleep. It’s a welcome change to the year’s melancholy of the household. And it is not the only welcome change that occurs.

We are awoken by the sound of Mom shrieking from the bathroom. Unlike the day last year, when she burst into terrified sobs, they are shrieks of joy. Dad is in the bathroom too. I dash in to see what’s going on, to find them embracing, crying, smiling through tears. Mom is clutching a white stick that stinks strongly of her on her stinkiest days.

year seven DAD: I love you so much, so so so much.

I yowl in celebration. I don’t know what we’re celebrating, but I haven’t seen them this happy in months and months.

DAD: Hey, Luckster! You’re gonna be a big brother again!

I have learned that this means more human kittens. This time, I am very excited to meet it.

year seven Lucky. year eight year eight As it turns out, the human kitten is even more loud than I had imagined. Her name is Daisy, and sometimes she likes to shriek in the middle of the night, waking up Mom and Dad and me. Her wailing continues until Mom or Dad carries her around the house in the dark, rocking her in her arms and singing quiet songs in her ear.

Truthfully, though I had been excited for Daisy’s arrival, I now realize my anticipation was misguided. I knew that she would be helpless like a real kitten for a good three weeks before becoming interesting—but now it’s been at least two months, and still all she does is cry and sleep and eat and stare at the things Mom and Dad wave in her face. For all I know, this could go on for years and years.

year eight I do not understand why Mom and Dad wanted this thing so badly. She does make them smile, which of course makes me happy—but the smiles seem far less frequent than the exhaustion and sneaked daytime naps between feedings.

What I do like about Daisy is that she likes to sleep, like I do (maybe even more than I do!). When she isn’t crying or eating or staring, she sleeps well in her crib. One day, I try to climb into the crib with her, only for Mom to freak out and yank me away before I can get close enough to touch her. She tells me I’m not allowed to touch Daisy yet. So far, I don’t think there’s anything fun about the baby.

year eight I do not understand why Mom and Dad wanted this thing so badly. She does make them smile, which of course makes me happy—but the smiles seem far less frequent than the exhaustion and sneaked daytime naps between feedings.

What I do like about Daisy is that she likes to sleep, like I do (maybe even more than I do!). When she isn’t crying or eating or staring, she sleeps well in her crib. One day, I try to climb into the crib with her, only for Mom to freak out and yank me away before I can get close enough to touch her. She tells me I’m not allowed to touch Daisy yet. So far, I don’t think there’s anything fun about the baby.

year eight year eight Sylvia, on the other hand, has paid little mind to the new baby. She dutifully receives her insulin shots in the back of her neck twice daily, and doesn’t even yowl anymore when the needle sticks her. Her accidents are rare, and she tends to sleep through Daisy’s screaming fits.

But even though I know the shots aren’t fun, I can’t help but feel a bit jealous of Sylvia still getting attention from Mom and Dad amidst the chaos of the baby. They make sure she gets extra love after every injection, and take great pains to comfort her before and after every checkup at the vet. On the days she doesn’t make it to the litter box, they go find her and tell her how much they love her and ask her how she’s feeling. Meanwhile, I receive my food twice daily, and I’m lucky if I get some drive-by pets between mealtimes.

year eight Since I can no longer count on Mom and Dad for fun, I try to get Sylvia to play with me. She and I both know she is old and achy, but still she tries. She swats her clawless paws at me and rolls over as I gnaw at her neck. I have to stop when I feel her hips shake—a surefire sign that her feet hurt and she needs a rest. These times are becoming fewer and fewer.

For the first time since my time in the kennel at the pet store, I feel lonely. The kind of loneliness that eats away at you like a disease. The kind of loneliness that spreads through every fiber of your being. It comes in stages, just like grief. Maybe I am grieving, grieving the joyous period of our lives when our family was complete—or at least as complete as I wanted it to be. I am grieving Sylvia, too; as I grow older myself, I understand that she will never be the same, and my time with her is limited.

year eight year eight I am keeping myself sane in the day-to-day chaos. I am unwelcome in the bed, as Mom needs extra space to nurse the child, so I sleep in a cat bed in the living room, in a corner, where my presence goes mostly unnoticed. I find new life in old toys, stuffed balls that were once lost to the depths of “under the couch”. I mark new prey outside our windows in the garden: new kinds of birds, new lizards, and a family of chipmunks that have made our oak tree their nest for the season. I eat my food without incident. I graciously accept the pets that I am given by the powers that be. When the baby cries, I ignore her, as I am ignored.

I guess this is what it means to be “Lucky” now.

year eight I am keeping myself sane in the day-to-day chaos. I am unwelcome in the bed, as Mom needs extra space to nurse the child, so I sleep in a cat bed in the living room, in a corner, where my presence goes mostly unnoticed. I find new life in old toys, stuffed balls that were once lost to the depths of “under the couch”. I mark new prey outside our windows in the garden: new kinds of birds, new lizards, and a family of chipmunks that have made our oak tree their nest for the season. I eat my food without incident. I graciously accept the pets that I am given by the powers that be. When the baby cries, I ignore her, as I am ignored.

I guess this is what it means to be “Lucky” now.

year eight To my surprise, the baby does become less irritable and more fun. She starts to sit up on her own a few months later. I am sitting on the couch one afternoon when Mom approaches, and sits down with Daisy in her lap. Daisy is awake, alert, and burbling happily.

MOM: Daisy, we have to be gentle with animals. We don’t want to hurt Lucky or Sylvia.

I agree with that. I don’t get up from my curled-up position, but I do watch as Daisy turns her gaze to me, wide-eyed as she wobbles around in Mom’s lap. I feel a tinge of jealousy knowing that I used to spend more time in Mom’s lap.

year eight MOM: That’s Lucky! He’s a kitty cat!

Daisy smiles and flaps one of her little stubby hands at me. Thankfully, I am out of reach.

MOM: Lucky is my best friend.

Oh. I haven’t heard that in a long time. I sit up a bit, feeling a familiar warmth grow in my chest, still keeping my distance from the handsy baby.

year eight MOM: Someday, he’ll be your best friend too.

I don’t ever say never, but at the moment, I doubt it. Especially when I look at Daisy, whose large watery eyes are as cute as her drooly mouth is repulsive. I can see the tips of two little white teeth coming in from her top gums—future fangs.

Daisy screeches. It’s a different one than the one that comes in the night; it’s warm and happy.

MOM: Lucky, can Daisy pet your fur?

year eight It is certainly nice of her to ask. I eye Daisy’s hands warily. They’re tiny and rubbery-looking, with fat little sausage fingers and delicate fingernails on the tips. She’s taking great joy in flexing her fists, though her overall dexterity is still lacking. I imagine her tearing a fistful of my fur out and throwing it back at me. Even if it were unintentional, it would be deeply offensive—and infuriating!

And I could not even fully defend myself if she were to attack. Or rather, I would not. I am not in the business of hurting the defenseless. Unless it was a squirrel.

Or a chipmunk.

Or a bird.

Well, we won’t go into that. But I won’t hurt Daisy. She wouldn’t even taste good.

year eight I reject my baser instinct and approach Daisy slowly, cautiously, ready to dart at the sight of a wayward hand. It is not Daisy’s hand that reaches for me first, but Mom’s.

MOM: Awwww, such a good boy. I’m sorry we’ve been so busy since Daisy was born. I promise we’ll spend more time together soon.

It is infuriatingly easy to forgive her. She rubs me under my neck and I purr. Normally, I would close my eyes and enjoy the attention, but I must stay vigilant in the presence of the child.

year eight DAISY: Baaaaaaahhhhhhhhh.

Daisy stretches out her arm towards me, but her arm is too short to reach me even at her short distance. Mom picks her up by her body and gently guides her hand towards my rump, letting her feel my velvety fur. Daisy’s hands are feather-light. If I hadn’t seen the way she squeezes her toys, I would find it hard to fear her grip.

Daisy’s smile disappears as soon as her hand grazes my fur. Her gaze locks on my body in wonder. She stares at me as if she is seeing me for the first time (and perhaps, in a way, she is).

MOM: See, Daisy? He’s so cute and soft!

year eight MOM: See, Daisy? He’s so cute and soft!

Daisy beams once again and shrieks with joy.

DAISY: BAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHH!

Okay, that’s enough of that. I leap off the couch and flee into the linen closet before Mom can protest. I hear Mom lightly, futilely scolding the baby from the living room.

MOM: Okay Daisy, being gentle with the kitty cat also means not screaming at him…

I sniff the air. A familiar stench is wafting through the house.

MOM: Oop. Ughhh. Oh God, alright, let’s get you changed, you poopy little pooper.

year eight It is not the first time or the last time that Daisy and I get up close and personal in her first year. It is hard not to resent her when she takes up so much of Mom and Dad’s time. It is even harder not to resent her when she takes up so much of their time while Sylvia’s time remaining seems to be shortening with each passing day.

But the hardest thing to do is to stay mad at someone who begins reacting to the sight of you with utter, unbridled joy in the purest sense of the word, and whose heart visibly and audibly shatters when she is denied access to you. When she is told by her dad that it’s bath time, not kitty time. When her mom tells her that kitty is sleeping and we respect the kitty’s sleep.

Daisy and I do not speak the same language yet. But I am beginning to feel hopeful that someday we might.

year eight Lucky. year nine As time passes, Daisy gets louder, happier, and more mobile. A year later, she is exploring the house on her wobbly, fat little legs. She has curious, grabby hands, and a squeal that’s only gotten louder with each passing month.

I admit that she’s become a fascinating creature. I think the fascination is mutual. If left unwatched for more than a moment, she will come find Sylvia or myself and try to catch our tails in her hand.

Well, okay, we each let that happen once. Now I take off to a higher place whenever she waddles towards us unaccompanied by Mom or Dad. Sylvia will drag her body under the nearest couch. She doesn’t do much jumping anymore.

year nine In fact, Sylvia doesn’t do much of anything these days. She eats, accepts her insulin shots without a fight, sleeps, and repeats. I know better than to try and strike up playtime. She says her old bones just can’t keep up with me anymore.

I know that Sylvia’s days are numbered, but I am grateful for each passing day. I’ve taken up much of her grooming, and Mom and Dad are helping with the rest. They shave her long fur to prevent her from getting mats and knots in her hefty coat. I keep her new short ‘do pristine and clean, until it grows back in, and then we do it all over again.

year nine year nine If I am honest with myself, I too am a little slower than I used to be. I am not yet old, or so Sylvia tells me, but I find myself less interested in play and more interested in naps. Which is okay with me. Sylvia is an especially great napping buddy lately. I try to lay with her in the sunny window each day. We take the best naps together when Daisy is napping too.

SYLVIA: You’ve been sleeping more lately.

ME: You’re one to talk…

SYLVIA: Touche.

year nine She yawns and stretches out her body against me. You can practically hear her old bones creaking as she reaches towards the wall.

SYLVIA: I have to save my energy. I’m afraid there isn’t much left to go around, these days.

I feel a slight pinch in my chest when she says it. We both know it’s true, but it still feels so unfathomably distant.

ME: Don’t say that stuff. It scares me.

Sylvia’s cheeks twitch into what could be called a cat’s smile.

year nine SYLVIA: You shouldn’t be scared. Someday it will happen to you too. And if everyone plays their cards right, you’ll be ready to go when the time comes.

ME: I don’t think that will ever happen. I would never want to leave Mom and Dad.

SYLVIA: It is hard to explain… You don’t want to go, but you know when it is time. If you are lucky—and I suppose you are—you live a long, happy life and there’s nothing else left for you to do. You enjoy the rest of your days as best you can and then one day, if you’re truly lucky, you’ll slip away in your sleep without any pain or suffering. Like a cozy nap in the sun that never ends.

year nine ME: How do you know that?

SYLVIA: I wasn’t Dad’s first cat. And now he has you, so I won’t be his last, either. I know that when I’m gone, he may be sad, he may cry, but he won’t be alone. I’ve served my purpose on this earth, and now I’m just passing on everything I know to you while waiting for my nap in the sun.

ME: And it won’t hurt?

SYLVIA: Well… I hope not. Some days, everything hurts. But someday, it won’t anymore.

year nine My chest tightens further. It is hard for me to imagine my life without Sylvia. Despite my reservations upon her arrival, she’s become a fixture in my life. A voice of wisdom. A comrade. A friend.

ME: I don’t want you to die.

SYLVIA: I’m glad. But it is the fate of all of things, sooner or later. Do me a favor and stay here longer than I have, okay?

ME: … I’ll do my best.

Our heartfelt chat is interrupted by sounds of Daisy burbling from the bedroom. She’s awoken from her own nap, much to Mom’s dismay. No matter how long Daisy naps, she says, it never seems to be enough to catch up on the chores.

year nine It is only a few weeks later that Sylvia’s health sinks into a rapid decline. One day, she begins having daily accidents again. Then, they become several daily accidents. Dad dresses her with a tiny diaper not unlike the ones Daisy wears. Sylvia bemoans her state to me.

SYLVIA: Do you see, now, how you might someday know when you are ready?

I wince. The very thought of carrying my pee and poop around makes me queasy.

year nine Later, Sylvia’s appetite begins to wane. She nibbles less and less from her food bowl. Soon, she finds it too troublesome to even bother getting up to eat or drink—even when Mom and Dad serve her wherever she’s made her bed for the day. Her already-underweight body begins to shrink further.

It is then that Mom and Dad sit in the living room, holding each other and sobbing. Dad makes a phone call through his tears.

DAD: Hello, Dr. Nguyen? Y-Yes… Sylvia… It’s time. … Thank you, thank you. … Can you make a house call? I would hate for her last hours to be spent in a scary car ride.

year nine Mom sniffles and wraps her arms around a sleepy Sylvia. I can tell she is stifling her noise so as to not wake a napping Daisy. Dad hangs up with the doctor and joins her in lavishing Sylvia with pets through choked cries.

DAD: … He’ll come tomorrow afternoon. He said we should make her as comfortable as possible tonight… Give her whatever she wants to eat.

MOM: What… What will we do with her body?

Mom wipes away her tears as she says it.

year nine MOM: I’ve never dealt with this before…

Dad shifts uneasily.

DAD: We can have her cremated… Or we can bury her. But I don’t want to leave her behind if we ever decide to move away.

MOM: There are pet crematoriums…? I guess so. God, I’ve never had to even think about this. I avoid thinking about it.

Dad nods.

year nine DAD: Dr. Nguyen said if we call someone to come pick up her body, we should let her lay out for about an hour after she passes. He said… he said it’s important for Lucky to see her body, if possible. It will help him process the loss. Otherwise he may walk around looking for her and crying for her.

Mom bursts into tears once again. They spend a long time holding each other and lavishing love on Sylvia. That night, I sleep with my paws around her thin, frail body, knowing our goodbye is coming but so too is her peace.

year nine In the morning, Sylvia manages to lap up a saucer of cream. Mom and Dad remove her diaper for the last time, and spend the hours before the doctor’s arrival brushing her gently and taking photos and videos of her. They talk about making an album to show Daisy someday.

I lay with Sylvia one last time as Mom and Dad lay Daisy down for a nap.

SYLVIA: Today is the day.

year nine If I could cry, I would. My eyes do feel a sting—I imagine this is what human tears feel like.

SYLVIA: Please don’t be sad. I’ve had a long life. Especially these last few years. You and Mom and Daisy made my family complete. You made this old girl so happy.

ME: I don’t want you to go. I need you. I’m going to be so lonely.

SYLVIA: Don’t be silly. I know she’s small and troublesome now, but Daisy will be the best friend you’ve ever had. Even more than me, or Mom.

I decide to refrain from telling Sylvia my severe doubts in regards to this particular nugget of wisdom.

year nine SYLVIA: There will come a day when you are never bored again. And someday you’ll be old and weary too. But we’re not going to talk about that today.

ME: I love you, Sylvia. I love you so much. I promise I’ll keep Dad company for you.

SYLVIA: If you did that, I would like that very much. … And I will share with you one final secret I learned from Dad’s last companion.

ME: What is it?

year nine SYLVIA: When we go, we are never truly gone. Physically, yes. But I’ll still be here, in spirit. You’ll know when I’m here, when you nap in our favorite sunny window and the breeze taps one of the oak tree’s branches against the glass. Or when you catch Dad smiling for seemingly no reason. And someday, you’ll join me where I am, and we’ll play together again. No diabetes, no achy clawless paws. Just you and me and all the friends we could ever hope for.

It is a concept that is altogether too intangible for me to truly grasp. But I nuzzle Sylvia nonetheless, and get in one last groom of her face before the fateful knock on our door.

year nine I watch from my favorite hiding place in the living room as Sylvia slowly dozes off in Dad’s arms. The doctor listens to her chest with a stethoscope and informs them her heart has stopped beating. She has passed on.

It is hard to believe she is dead as Mom and Dad take turns cradling her limp body, kissing her in between anguished cries. She looks to me as if she’s taking a very cozy nap. My baser instincts kick in; I know that I will never be satisfied until I’ve heard her silent heart myself.

year nine It feels like an eternity before Mom and Dad lay her body on the floor in the living room. They give her a few last pets before turning to me in my hideaway cubby.

MOM: Lucky… The doctor is gone. Will you come say goodbye?

I cautiously exit my hiding place and tiptoe towards her dead body. Her smell is much the same as it always was, albeit with a hint of unfamiliar chemical. But when I lay my paw on her side, she is cold. I know, then, that she is gone. A wave of grief washes over me and I let out a loud, anguished yowl. Mom and Dad are brought to tears once again as I lay down next to Sylvia’s lifeless shape.

year nine A young man stops by soon after, offering his condolences before collecting Sylvia’s remains. It is the last I see of her physical body on Earth.

year nine A few days later, he returns with a small urn, inscribed with Sylvia’s name and a message.

year nine year nine That day, I take a long nap in the sunshine. I am awoken by the whistles of a gentle spring breeze, and a tap of the oak tree’s branch on our window.

year nine Lucky. year ten Though Sylvia has now been gone for what feels like an eternity, I have found it easier in the days, weeks, and months after her passing to trust her words of the future.

For instance, Daisy is no longer a helpless infant nor a wobbly baby, but rather an unstoppable force of nature. She is a rambunctious toddler, fully mobile albeit with a few scraped knees here and there. She is still grabby, but with more intention behind her motions. She can now think before she acts (though sometimes she still chooses not to).

Sometimes, she’s even fun.

year ten year ten Shortly after Sylvia’s death, Mom once again trapped me in my carrier and took me somewhere new and far away, an empty place with ghastly, unfamiliar smells. Our “new home”, complete with a bedroom for Daisy and a big, beautiful yard with a big, beautiful fence.

There is an oak tree in the garden just like our old place, and Dad talks about how someday he will get around to digging Mom that koi pond she’s always wanted. (And it sounds absolutely delightful to me, but I’ll believe it when I see it.) In our old home, I would have been stuck watching from the windows, but Mom decides that I can go outside, as long as I promise to stay close to home and stick to the yard.

year ten The first time I venture outside, it is with Mom and Daisy. Mom has dug a small vegetable garden, and there are tiny green tomatoes beginning to sprout on vines. Mom carries me outside, flanked by Daisy, and my nose is inundated with all the strange smells of the outdoors. I wriggle slightly in Mom’s arms; I am both excited to explore and terrified to be outside the comforting walls of home.

MOM: Hold st—hold still, Lucky! Do you want to go back inside?

year ten I flop helplessly in her arms. I don’t know what I want. I want to catch a mouse and disembowel it as much as I want to run back in the house and hide under Mom and Dad’s bed. Mom sighs and looks down at Daisy, who is already waddling towards the soil patch in the garden.

MOM: Now I don’t want to put him down. What if he makes a run for it?

DAISY: Don’t run away, kitty!

Dad pokes his head out the porch door.

DAD: Why don’t you set him down in the doorway? Might be better if he decides to take the leap on his own. Maybe he doesn’t want to go outside.

year ten Mom looks back at him and sighs. I go limp in her embrace.

MOM: Alright, Lucky.

She heads back towards the door, grass crunching beneath her feet, and glances back at Daisy to shout at her.

MOM: Hey, do not pull the leaves off, missy!

year ten Mom hands me to Dad, who gently sets me at his feet in the doorway. I scamper behind the door so that I can peek around it while I take in the scents of the air the sights of the garden.

There is plenty of open space, which means birds might swoop down at any minute. Great if I am bigger than them, but not so great if they are big hungry birds like hawks. I watch cautiously from behind Dad’s legs as Mom and Daisy begin digging in the garden with their bare hands.

year ten DAISY: Kitty coming outside?

MOM: Only if he feels safe coming outside. She holds up an earthworm and Daisy makes a face.

DAISY: Eeeew, eeeew!

MOM: Not ew! They keep the dirt healthy. So the plants can grow.

Daisy is uncertain. So am I. Even from a distance, I can see the worm wriggling in her fingers, begging for a release back to the soil. I am as revolted as I am hungry.

year ten DAD: Lucky, you either need to go out or stay in.

My butt is planted firmly in the doorway. I am neither fully in nor fully out. Somehow, this seems as though it’s the safest place to be. I look up at Dad, and he sighs. He nudges my backside gently with his toes, urging me to take a step into the yard.

I do so, somewhat begrudgingly. The grass is crispy and cool beneath the pads of my feet. There is an array of unfamiliar smells wafting through the air. Fresh soil. Rainwater. Car exhaust. Somewhere from the other side of the fence, dog poop. It’s overwhelming, but I continue my cautious journey into the yard, towards Mom and Daisy.

year ten After a thorough inspection of the yard, I manage to settle myself into a loaf in a sunny spot by the garden hose. Our fun only ends when Dad comes back outside, frowning slightly as he picks Daisy up.

DAD: Your aunt just sent a text to your phone.

MOM: About what? Which aunt?

DAD: One of your dad’s sisters. She wants to talk about spreading his ashes.

Mom stands up and tosses her gardening gloves off. She doesn’t meet Dad’s eyes. Instead, she picks me up off the ground and begins to pet me almost aggressively.

MOM: My favorite topic.

She carries me back indoors with her, and my yard adventure is finished for the day. But it is hardly the last, nor the most exciting.

year ten year ten Dad installs a cat flap in the back door, and I learn quickly that the outdoors has its dangers. And that the next door neighbor has a cat, too—one that is much larger than me. He walks the top of our fence with a confident cocktail of grace and swagger, as if to dare me to challenge his authority to do so. And it’s certainly tempting. I’ve growled at him more than once.

But he seems fairly young. He is fully “in tact”, so to speak, and carries it with pride. As I have entered my middle age, the thought of tussling with a young tomcat is hardly an appealing one.

year ten year ten Nonetheless, one day, he stops heeding my warning growls and hisses, and I spot him tiptoeing through Mom’s garden. I am inside, watching from the window, as Mom reads a book to Daisy. She pays little mind when I suddenly dash through the flap and skid to a halt in the backyard at a reasonably safe distance from the intruder.

ME: Hey! This is my yard! Haven’t I told you to stay out of here? Get lost.

TOMCAT: Maybe I think it should be mine now, old man.

Rude. I’m not old yet! Just… getting there.

year ten ME: No one cares what you think. Get lost, or--

There’s a flash in the tomcat’s narrowed green eyes.

TOMCAT: Or what? You’ll fight me?

I stiffen and the hair on my back stands up. My tail is fully puffed, and I thump it hard against the pavers.

ME: I’d rather not. I… I wouldn’t want to hurt you that badly.

year ten I’m trying to project confidence, but it’s probably not working. The other cat begins slinking through the tomato plants, slowly making his way closer to me. I jump to my feet and begin circling, maintaining my original distance.

TOMCAT: Then you must not care about your territory that much.

Suddenly he stops in his tracks and begins backing up against one of the tomato plants. It’s the universal sign that a male cat is about to spray to mark his territory. I bow up. Sure, the tomato plants are in my territory, but more than anything, they belong to Mom and Daisy, who work hard every morning to tend them, that have finally begun to sprout juicy red fruit. I’m not about to let some punk neighbor ruin them with his funk.

year ten I let out a furious yowl and take a few warning steps in his direction. A low, rumbling growl emerges from my depths. The tomcat is slightly taken aback, and instead of spraying, he moves closer, still circling.

I cannot quite recall exactly what happened next. My mind felt blank with rage. All I remember is a few long, long moments spent growling at each other before we erupt into a furious ball of claws, teeth, scratches, and flying fur balls. The tomcat sinks his back claws into my chest with bunny kicks and I feel my flesh tear open with a splash of blood. Mom must have heard our screams because she comes running and finds me fighting—bleeding, but still fighting—and begins to shout.

year ten MOM: Oh my god! Lucky! Go, you, go away! Shoo! Bad kitty!

The tomcat flees with his own mild injuries as I flop to the ground. My chest hurts, and I’m panting. The rest of the day is a blur as Mom wraps me in a towel and rushes me to the doctor. The last thing I remember is a man in white poking me with a needle and telling me I’m going to take a nap.

year ten When I awaken, a woman in scrubs is retrieving me from a cage not unlike the one I escaped with Mom 10 years ago. Her voice is gentle, a welcome reprieve in my exhausted and slightly delirious state. My chest is still a bit sore. She carries me into a bright white room, where the man in white is waiting for me, and sets me on a table in the center of the room. I gaze blearily around, wondering where my family is.

WOMAN: I’m gonna go get your Mom, okay Lucky? Dr. Nguyen got you all stitched up.

year ten The man in white gives me a comforting pet down my back before going over to a supply cabinet to fiddle with something. The door opens, and there is Mom, tears streaming down her face. The woman in scrubs gives her a gentle pat on the back.

DR. NGUYEN: He’s going to be fine, Mama.

MOM: Oh, oh thank goodness. Thank you. Lucky…

I do not have the strength yet to greet her as she throws herself over my body, stroking me gently.

year ten DR. NGUYEN: Laurie, Nurse Ann is going to show you how to put the cone on and take it off. He needs to wear it for at least two weeks so he doesn’t lick at the stitches.

MOM: He’s going to hate that.

Nurse Ann smiles as she begins to unfold a white round thing. Little did I know, it would become the bane of my life.

NURSE ANN: They always do. But he’ll forgive you.

year ten year ten The next couple of weeks are difficult. I bump into doorways, accidentally step in my own mess in the litter box, and have to eat slowly lest I spit it back into the cone. On the bright side, I become much better at listening for Daisy, and learn how to discern by ear the direction in which she is running towards me.

Worst of all, I am banned from the outdoors during my recovery. When I return, I do not see or smell the tomcat anywhere. In fact, he does not show his face again for several weeks, until one day I spot him on the neighbor’s porch. There is something different about him I cannot place. He does not react aggressively when he sees me, nor does he trespass on my territory.

year ten It’s not until Mom spills the beans while reopening the cat flap that I realize what is different about my mean neighbor.

MOM: You can go outside again, Lucky, but you need to be careful. Captain got fixed, so he might be nicer, but you don’t need to tussle with any other critters either. The vet emptied our savings account.

That’s when I see it. His swagger, his confidence—it’s gone. And so are his balls.

Good riddance to a problem child!

The yard is mine once again.

year ten Lucky. year eleven I had never fancied myself an indoor-outdoor cat, but as I advance in years, I see the benefit of the fresh air.

Yes, there was that pesky incident with the neighbor cat, Captain—but he’s behaved himself since losing his manhood. He keeps to his yard, and I keep to mine. We have a fine arrangement.

The bright sunshine warms me to my bones. These days, it feels a bit harder to keep myself warm, so nothing quite hits the spot like a sprawl on the pavers on a sunny afternoon.

year eleven And the koi pond, oh, the koi pond! Dad finally got around to putting it in, and it is a glory beyond my wildest dreams. The golden orange fish glide beneath the surface of the water like the most tempting of toys, but they are frustratingly swift to evade my swipes. After several wet paws (and one embarrassing tumble) from failed attempts at grabbing a snack, I settle for simply watching them from my perch on the pond rocks.

Though I am content with my backyard kingdom, I sometimes long to expand my territory. I know little of the world beyond, except that it exists, and could be filled with all sorts of exciting snacks, smells, and adventures. Mom scolds me if I venture too close to the gate, so I know she intends to keep me confined. I suppose she has good reason to worry, after my incident with the tomcat.

year eleven It is not until Daisy digs a hole under the fence that I take my chances on adventure. While Dad is occupied with pressure washing the pavers, she uses a toy shovel to dig the smallest hole under the panels of the fencing, revealing a small tunnel to the other neighbor’s yard.

Dad turns around just in time to see me wiggle my body under the fence and flee towards freedom. I hear him yell and run towards the gate to chase after me. I dart out of sight towards the closest safe space I can see: a crawl space under the neighbor’s front deck. As far as Dad is concerned, I have vanished into thin air.

year eleven year eleven I intend to make my way home after a short jaunt around the neighborhood. But my journey is quickly sidetracked, when the neighbor’s enormous dog—a bulky Saint Bernard—begins sniffing around the crawl space. It occurs to me belatedly that like Captain intruded on my territory, so am I intruding on someone else’s.

Someone else giant, drool, and capable of eating me. I’ve never seen a dog eat a cat, but I’m certain it could happen.

The dog’s nose follows me as I slink around the crawl space, looking for a gap in the wooden slats. When I find one, I gingerly make my escape, but it only takes the Saint Bernard a matter of moments to catch up with me. I flee for my life as he barks and chases me. The only place to go is up. I take a flying leap onto a recycling bin and another leap to the awning, where I am fully out of his reach. Still he barks, but there is no way he’s going to be able to get his bulky body up to me, so I take the moment to breathe and watch him from my hard-earned perch.

year eleven His dumb floppy tongue hangs out of his mouth between barking fits. I’m content to taunt him until I hear the squeak of the neighbor’s porch door. The dog’s human is no doubt coming to inspect the source of the noise.

I flee across the awning, triggering his barks yet again, and fly onto the branches of a nearby maple tree. Its branches are nowhere near as strong as the ones on the oak tree in our yard, and I know that it will only support my weight for a moment in my journey.

year eleven year eleven I claw my way down the trunk of the maple tree into what I assume is the next neighbor’s yard, but I am met not with a house, but some other kind of building. It has massive garage doors. One is open, revealing a large, red vehicle. I decide the bushes in front of the building are a great place to hide and figure out my next course of action.

Until the screaming begins.

year eleven I rest for only a brief time before I am snapped out of my lull by the shrieks of a siren. There is shouting that comes from inside the garage. I contemplate fleeing—but these bushes feel safe. I watch as the enormous red vehicle slowly emerges from the garage, siren still screaming, before turning down the street and taking off in a terrifying rush.

My heart is pounding. I am thinking that maybe I am in over my head, and should make my way home, but I am frozen in place. The sun moves across the sky as I continue crouching in the bush. It is late afternoon before I decide to venture out of my hiding spot.

year eleven year eleven I can follow my nose home. I trot cautiously towards the street, and begin to cross the driveway of the house with the Saint Bernard—when I realize the neighbor’s car is rolling backwards towards the road. Towards me.

I leap out of the path of the first set of wheels and crouch low to the ground, eyes squeezed shut, as the center of the car rolls over me. When I see the sun again, I flee without paying mind to the direction. I run as fast and as far as my feet will carry me, and I can only hope that my feet carry me to Mom and Dad’s front door.

year eleven year eleven When I regain my senses, I am crouched in a leafy burrow behind a large building. This time it’s not the fire station, but the local elementary school, quiet for the weekend.

In my terror, I have lost the scent of home. Surely it will return, right? My nose just needs a rest.

I crawl deeper into the burrow. It appears to be abandoned. Perhaps it was once the home of a groundhog.

That night, I watch the sun set from my burrow. As the sky darkens, a chill falls over the backyard of the school, but my burrow is reasonably insulated.

I wonder if Mom and Dad will come looking for me.

year eleven I find myself too afraid to leave the burrow until the following night. By then, I am very hungry, and needing to use my litter box—but my food and my box are nowhere to be seen. I will have to make do.

I could certainly catch one of the mice or chipmunks that has been scampering around the grass all evening. They become especially active around twilight. But I’m uneasy at the thought of dragging its delicious carcass back to my burrow—or worse, eating it out in the open—where I could attract enemies.

year eleven Instead, I set my sights on the garbage dumpster behind the school, filled with discarded, half-eaten turkey and cheese sandwiches, unloved sticks of beef jerky, and unopened cartons of milk just a day beyond their expiry dates. A dive through the trash, however undignified, could provide me enough sustenance to make it through the night, so that I might consider a move to a new hiding spot in the morning.

Sure enough, atop the pile of trash is a half-eaten sandwich. It smells like pork and cheese, but it’s now been sitting out for two days, so really, it could be anything. I knock the bread off with my paws and choke down the warm sandwich filling before leaping out of the dumpster and scanning the yard for a place to relieve myself.

year eleven A shady spot, several yards from my burrow, will have to do. If anyone catches the scent of my waste, I will have enough time to flee from my burrow.

After relieving myself, I retreat to the burrow once again. I manage a few hours of restless sleep, occasionally interrupted by the sounds of snakes slithering through the grass and cars honking their horns on nearby streets. I dream that I hear Mom’s voice calling for me.

year eleven MOM: Lucky! Luuuuccckyyyyyy. Aren’t you hungry? Kitty kitty!

It’s a nice dream.

MOM: Lucky… Come home, Lucky…

A very nice dream... and if it isn’t, I simply cannot risk venturing out at this time of night to find out.

In the morning, there is a flurry of activity around the school. Parents are dropping off their children in the front, and I decide my hiding spot is no longer safe. I leave my burrow for new horizons, hoping I will catch Mom’s scent on the wind to guide me home.

year eleven year eleven After another long trek around the neighborhood, I find a new hiding spot. Another neighbor has a garden with a small lean-to for storing their tools. I wedge my way beneath the handles of shovels and hoes and rakes, into a cozy, musty nook that feels safe for now.

I do not know how many days I spend in the neighbor’s tool cubby. I do wonder if I will ever get home, or if I am even wanted at home. Certainly Mom and Dad would have come looking for me by now. Sure, I have been deliberately making myself as invisible as possible, but if they loved me, then they wouldn’t rest until they got me home!

Perhaps they think I ran away of my own free will. And I suppose I did, but I meant to come home! I never meant to get lost. I guess this is why Mom was so adamant about keeping me away from the gate.

year eleven That night, when I trot out of hiding to scout down some food and a place to relieve myself, I spot a poster stapled to a utility pole.

year eleven year eleven I am a cat and I cannot read. To me it is nothing more than another jumble of imagery in a world that’s full of it. But I am sure it must mean something to someone, or else it wouldn’t be there.

year eleven The next morning, my hiding place is discovered. The neighbor, a graying old woman with a large mole under her eye, yelps when she reaches into the shed for a watering can and spots me crouched beneath the large tools.

WOMAN: Oh! Hello, kitty cat!

I shrink back into the corner of the shed, trying to make myself as small as possible in the face of a stranger. She backs away and crouches down to get a better look at me.

WOMAN: You look familiar. What’re you doin’ in my tool shed?

year eleven She looks around, before picking herself back up with great effort and resting her hands on her hips.

WOMAN: Don’t go anywhere, little fella.

The woman disappears. She’s gone for a few minutes before she returns with her phone in hand, talking to someone.

WOMAN: Yeah, he’s gotta white tip on his tail? He’s in the back corner of the shed, I don’t wanna get down there and check his collar in case he makes a run for it. I think it’s him, though. … Oh yes, you’re welcome. Poor dear. I’m sure you’ve been worried sick. I’m in house number 25 on Azalea Street. … Magnolia Avenue? Well, he had quite a little adventure then, didn’t he? … I’ll wait here outside the tool shed until you get here. It don’t got a door, so I can’t close him in. He probably won’t try to run away if I’m just sitting here. See you soon, darlin’.

year eleven She pulls up a nearby garden chair and slowly sits down in front of the shed, effectively trapping me in my corner. I could make a run for it, but I don’t know what this woman’s deal is. I decide to wait.

I only have to wait a few minutes before I hear familiar footsteps, followed by little tiny ones. Daisy’s voice rings out from a distance.

DAISY: Mommy, Mommy, Lucky’s here?

My ears perk up. Could it be? I’m saved?

year eleven MOM: Shh, shhh, we don’t want to scare him out of his hiding place, sweetie.

The delightfully familiar and comforting scents of home waft through the air and into my nose. I feel a wave of relief wash over me as Mom appears in front of the lean-to, throwing her arms around the shoulders of the old woman, who appears surprised by her gesture, but not ungrateful.

MOM: Oh thank you, thank you so much for calling, ma’am. We haven’t slept in a week.

WOMAN: Oh honey, I know. I’ve been worried sick since I first saw your signs. I’m glad we found him.

year eleven Mom sets my carrier down in the grass and slowly approaches the tool shed. She kneels down and our eyes meet for the first time in days. Daisy throws herself down on the grass beside her, covering her tiny knees in mud. Her eyes light up when she spots me.

MOM: Hey, Lucky. You ready to come home?

I am, but I find myself somehow still frozen to the corner of the tool shed. Fortunately, Mom is able to maneuver her hands underneath the cluster of rake and shovel handles to grip me by the scruff of my neck. She sets me in my carrier and the old woman helps her latch the door.

Normally, I hate my carrier, but it’s the safest I’ve felt in days.

year eleven That night, Daisy and I both crawl into bed with Mom and Dad. Though I cannot say so, I hope our family cuddle reassures them that I’ve had plenty of adventures to last me the rest of my life, however much time I may have left.

year eleven Lucky. year twelve For years, I rotated sleeping places between my bed by the window, the bed I sometimes shared with Sylvia, and Mom and Dad’s bed. After Daisy was born, I rarely ventured into Mom and Dad’s bed at night. When she was tiny, Daisy was up at all hours of the night to feed, and then when she started sleeping in her own bed, she would still wake up with occasional nightmares to push me out of the way and cuddle with our parents. I did get used to it.

These days, I am able to sleep in Mom and Dad’s bed again. Daisy’s nightmares are fewer and fewer.

What is odd is that sometimes Dad no longer sleeps in the bed with Mom.

year twelve Sometimes Dad leaves for the night, angry, and doesn’t return until after Mom has taken Daisy to daycare and gone to work.

Tonight is likely to be one of those nights. Daisy has been put to bed, and an argument has erupted in the kitchen. I can tell they are trying to be as quiet as possible, but it’s still loud enough to frighten me into one of my favorite hiding spots behind the rubber tree plant in the foyer.

DAD: I work my ass off, Laurie. It’s not—

MOM: And I don’t? What am I, a lazy freeloader?

year twelve DAD: No, no, that’s not what I was saying, why don’t you let me finish?

MOM: Okay, go ahead. Go ahead.

Dad stares at her, biting his lip as if he’s holding back some choice words.

DAD: It’s not asking that much for you to take care of the dishes once or twice a week.

MOM: I never said it was. I said I would do the dishes.

Dad gestures at a pile of dirty dishes in the sink.

DAD: … Great job, babe!

year twelve MOM: I was getting to them tonight! Literally was coming in here to do them before you started stomping around like a baby—

DAD: Yeah, and they’ve been sitting here for four days. Fourrrr daaaayyyys.

MOM: If it’s that important to you then maybe you should’ve done them!

DAD: I’ve been working 11-hour days so we can afford the rent for your mom’s fancy assisted living community. I could always quit that so I have more time to do dishes.

MOM: I work too! And I deal with all of Daisy’s sh—

DAD: Don’t say it—

Mom lowers her voice.

MOM: The childcare.

year twelve DAD: Look. I value all the work you do around the house. I hope you value mine too.

Mom looks away, tears in her eyes. There’s a long pause and she nods.

DAD: Babe, I’m exhausted. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. But it’s a bummer to come home to again after getting up early to mow the lawn, and clean the cat’s box, and take out the trash, and then going to work for 11 straight hours. And I know—I know you work too, and deal with Daisy, but seeing as your days are only about 7 hours, I think it’s fair to expect the dishes to be out of the sink within 24 hours. That’s all I’m saying.

MOM: … I don’t think you understand, if you think my days are “only about 7 hours”.

It’s Dad’s turn to look away.

year twelve MOM: While you’re out there mowing the lawn, I’m spending two hours getting Daisy out of bed, and brushing every little tangle out of her hair, and sometimes she cries!

DAD: I know that—

MOM: And then, I have to get her dressed, and you know she changes her mind on what she wants to wear halfway through! Then I have to make her food and feed her, and pack her lunch, and sit her down in front of the TV while I get myself ready to go to work.

DAD: …

year twelve MOM: Do you want me to keep going? Because I will. Just because I don’t get paid to take care of our child doesn’t mean it’s not hard work. Just like mowing the lawn is hard work you don’t get paid for.

I take this opportunity to slink away across the floor into Daisy’s bedroom.

year twelve year twelve Daisy’s bedroom is spacious and decorated in shades of pink and purple. She has dolls scattered around the room that I dodge with ease as I make my way through the mess. I pause when I reach the side of her bed. She is rolled over on her side, facing the wall. I would guess that she is asleep, but until I can see her eyes, it will be impossible to know for sure.

I leap onto the bed and over her legs. When I look back, I see her two big blue eyes, wide awake and staring at me. They’re not the joyous eyes I’m used to, though—they’re tired, and perhaps even sad.

She whispers to me as she reaches out to pet me on my rump.

DAISY: Hi Lucky. Don’t tell them I’m not sleeping.

year twelve Mom and Dad have resumed arguing in the kitchen. I curl up next to Daisy as I hear Dad storm into their bedroom and rustle around before leaving the house again. I suspect it will be another night he doesn’t come home.

Daisy lays with me for a long time, stroking me gently while she stares listlessly at the wall. If I could, I would tell her to close her eyes and try to fall asleep. But as we hear Mom begin to sniffle and sob in her bedroom, I know that sleep will be tough for Daisy tonight.

year twelve year twelve I do not leave Daisy until long after she finally dozes off—and only then to briefly relieve myself and drink some water. I poke my head into Mom and Dad’s bedroom to check on Mom, and find that she has cried herself to sleep. Part of me wants to go curl up with Mom instead—after all, she’s the one who’s not used to sleeping alone—but the rest of me feels strongly that Mom would want me to go to Daisy instead. So I do. And I don’t leave her again until Mom gently awakens her for school the next morning, as if nothing ever happened.

year twelve year twelve The fighting endures, off and on.

Sometimes there will be weeks and weeks of domestic bliss. Dad comes home every day for a week straight with a bouquet of flowers or a bag of candy for Mom. Mom surprises Dad at work with takeout, or begs him to take her to a hockey game. Mom and Dad take Daisy out on weekends to the park and to movies and to visit her grandmother, all while I relax at home and enjoy some hard-won moments of peace and solitude.

The older I get, the more I understand Sylvia, and the more I miss her.

year twelve But then one night the bliss will be shattered by the smallest pebble, by something as inconsequential as a broken dinner plate or a forgotten appointment, and the shouting begins again. Dad no longer leaves for the night without saying goodbye to Daisy first. Even when she is asleep, he is sure to stop by her bedroom, kiss her, and tuck her in before leaving for his friend’s place.

Daisy pretends to sleep through it. But I know better. Her tiny tears dampen my silky coat. It is the only time I do not mind it getting a bit wet.

year twelve One night, Dad leaves and Daisy is still up. The two of us are listening to Mom wail together. Daisy whispers in my ears in the darkness of her bedroom.

DAISY: Mommy is crying. You always stay with me… Maybe I should stay with Mommy.

And so she does. I stretch out on the sheets as Daisy flops out of her bed and tiptoes into the master bedroom. After she is out of my sight, I follow her, watching the scene unfold from the doorway.

year twelve Mom stops crying once she hears Daisy enter. There’s a wetness to her voice and a stifle in her nose that makes it obvious she’s been crying regardless. Mom rolls over and stretches her arms out to Daisy.

MOM: Is everything okay, sweetie?

DAISY: … Daddy left again.

MOM: I know, baby.

Mom slides over to Dad’s side of the bed and pats the spot where she had been laying before. Daisy hoists herself up into the bed and lays beside Mom, who cradles her close to her breast.

year twelve MOM: I’m sorry. We’re trying to stop fighting.

DAISY: Do you and Daddy not love each other anymore?

Though it is dark, my superior night vision makes it clear to me in Mom’s face that Daisy’s sad little words broke her heart.

MOM: We still love each other very much. And you. We love you more than anything.

DAISY: And Lucky?

My tail stands at attention, and I begin to make my way into the room. Mom chuckles gently.

year twelve MOM: And Lucky. Speak of the devil.

I leap into the bed, squeezing myself between their two bodies.

DAISY: When will Daddy be home?

MOM: … In the morning.

That is how it has been before. Mom doesn’t sound sure of it, though.

DAISY: Okay.

Daisy kisses me on my forehead.

DAISY: Good night, Lucky. Good night, Mommy.

year twelve Mom forces a smile and strokes Daisy’s hair.

MOM: Good night, baby girl.

It is not long before Daisy drifts off to sleep in Mom’s arms. Their embrace is warm and gentle enough to almost put me to sleep as well—though my peace is punctured as the smallest of sniffles comes from Mom’s side of the bed, where tears are silently streaming down her face once again. She’s biting her lip and her eyes are closed, as if she hopes sleep will come to her in the middle of her choked back cries.

year twelve The next morning, Dad returns. The day unfolds differently than the usual Wednesday morning does in our house. Dad drops Daisy off at school, and returns home afterwards to Mom’s freshly made coffee and cinnamon-spiced porridge. The two of them spend the morning and afternoon on the couch together in the living room, sometimes speaking and sometimes sitting together in silence for a long, long time. Sometimes there are tears, too.

But at the end, there are hugs and kisses, and more tears. Before it’s time to pick up Daisy from school, Mom adds a sticky note to the fridge: “Family counseling, Friday 9:30am”.

year twelve Lucky. year thirteen The year Mom and Dad spent fighting was a long one. But it did not last. Soon, big changes came for someone small.

Daisy is now attending school.

From early in the morning until the early evening, Daisy goes away for the day. She leaves in the morning with Dad and returns home in the evening with Mom, carrying a backpack and a lunchbox. Sometimes she’s excited, other days she throws a tantrum about wanting to stay home. But for all of her mixed feelings about the changes, it has been nothing but good for Mom and Dad’s marriage.

year thirteen It has been many months since Dad last stormed out at night to stay with a friend. They sleep in the same bed now, happily. Sometimes they even close the door after they’re sure Daisy’s gone to sleep (and after they’ve gently placed me elsewhere in the house) to make a bunch of noise doing who knows what. But they’re always in a good mood the morning after.

Sometimes a girl comes by the house to play with Daisy when Mom and Dad leave for an evening. She is young, but not as young as Daisy. Old enough that Daisy thinks she is an adult, but young enough that Dad has to give her a ride back home in the evening. I like her just fine. Sometimes she will sit on the couch with me and watch TV after Daisy has gone to bed, and I appreciate the way she gives back scratches.

year thirteen When Mom and Dad invite her over, they go out dressed to the nines. Mom has fully painted her face and Dad is wearing his nicest pants and shoes that he used to scold me for shedding upon. Daisy used to cry when they left, but now she’s become so fond of nights with the babysitter that she barely notices their absence.

As for me, I spend more time alone these days.

year thirteen When I think back to my younger years, I remember the long, lonely hours I spent waiting for Mom to come home from school or work, entertaining myself with whatever toys Mom bought for me or whatever I could find to make into a toy. (I recommend cardboard boxes.) I would sleep as much as possible to be awake for her when she got home, only to discover that she was exhausted.

Then for awhile it was all about Sylvia and I. If she were still alive, she would be very very old. Now that I have fully entered my senior years, I can appreciate her slow movements, her words of wisdom, and her gentle demeanor. I didn’t understand it all when I was young. But now the world around me moves so quickly, all the while my body is moving ever slower.

But I am at peace. The more I can sleep during the day, the more time I have to play with Daisy when she gets home. And we do love to play.

year thirteen year thirteen Daisy’s favorite game is a mock tea party with dolls for guests. She has a tiny tea table and tea set where she sets a table for four: herself, and three dolls, named Mrs. Blueberry, Moana, and Rosie.

She did invite me to sit at the table. But I find the small plastic chairs absolutely atrocious for my aging body. I am content to sit next to her and watch as she weaves fabulous tales to and about her guests while pouring them invisible beverages and pretending to chew on plastic finger sandwiches.

year thirteen DAISY: Mrs. Blueberry, you do not have enough sugar in your tea.

She drops an invisible handful of sugar cubes into Mrs. Blueberry’s teacup.

DAISY: I want sugar and milk with mine. Thank you, Rosie.

Rosie does not move, as she is an inanimate object. But Daisy thanks her nonetheless, and takes a sip of the invisible tea. Then she looks down at me as I thump my tail against the floor.

DAISY: What do you want in your tea, Lucky?

I blink at her. No tea for me, thank you. Just milk. Lots of milk. She looks back to her dolls and huffs in frustration.

year thirteen DAISY: Be quiet, Mrs. Blueberry, he does like tea. Here you go, Lucky.

She places a tiny plastic saucer before me and tips a tiny pitcher into it, as if pouring me milk. There is, of course, not a drop of milk anywhere to be seen. I know by now not to get my hopes up, but it still manages to disappoint me every time. I cannot bring myself to dignify this slight by playing along. Instead, I am content to lay my head on my feet and doze off.

year thirteen I do not mind so much the quiet daytime hours spent alone. Sometimes it takes a lot of energy to keep up with this little one. It’s sometimes hard to believe that she used to be so tiny, screamy, and grabby, because she has grown into such a kind and smart little human.

I’ve learned not to doubt the truth of my name.

year thirteen Sometimes, Mom returns home after taking Daisy to school. She calls them her “mental health days” and they are my favorite days of the month. It is rare that Mom and I get time alone like the old days. And though I am no longer the kitten I used to be, I still love her just the same. Or even more, if that were possible.

With Daisy and Dad out of the house, Mom has the peace and quiet she needs to resume one of her favorite old hobbies: smelly painting. She has her gear set up in a bright corner in the living room, where for a few hours, she is free to create without the wandering hands of a toddler. I sit in the window and watch as she stares at her easel, no doubt contemplating a new masterpiece.

year thirteen She ponders the blank canvas for a long time. More than once, she puts brush to paint to canvas and then draws her hand back as if she touched a flame. By the time Dad gets home with Daisy, there is naught on the canvas but a few random splotches she’s yet to cover up with white.

Mom is putting away her paints as Dad enters the house and Daisy comes running in behind him.

DAD: Hey, honey. How was your day off?

DAISY: Hi Mommy, hi Mommy, hi Mommy—

year thirteen Mom stoops down and spreads her arms out for Daisy to run into a hug. Daisy looks as if she might, then runs right past her and into her bedroom, throwing her purple backpack on the ground on the way. Mom chuckles weakly and then calls past her.

MOM: Hi sweetheart. Hope you had a good day at school.

She turns back to Dad and embraces him. They share a brief, tender moment as Dad hangs his bag up and kisses her like he did on the day he moved into our home.

MOM: It was fine. Luckster and I just relaxed while I painted.

year thirteen Dad glances towards the easel, eyes scanning the mostly blank canvas. He smiles sheepishly.

DAD: … Is this a new piece about the importance of negative space?

Mom gives him a light jab in the shoulder.

MOM: No, I’ve just got a bit of a creative block, that’s all. I had a few ideas, but then when I started applying paint to the canvas, I just kind of froze up. Like the passion was really brief and fleeting, and as soon as I had to bring it to life, it was gone.

year thirteen Dad squeezes her in his arms and gives her a peck on the forehead.

DAD: It’ll come to you. Don’t stress over it. You paint for fun, and stress is never fun.

Mom smiles.

MOM: I know.

She releases Dad and begins milling around the kitchen, poking into the pantry and the fridge and grabbing out various ingredients.

year thirteen MOM: Will you feed Lucky his dinner while I start ours?

My ears perk up at the sound of my name. Dad makes eye contact with me and nods.

DAD: Hungry kitty? Hungry Lucky?

Dad plucks a can of my food out of its stack in the pantry and I slowly raise myself from my resting place, stretching my body out as much as I can in preparation for a delicious meal. I don’t have to wait for very long; soon Dad serves me a can of turkey and liver and I am happily slurping it up.

year thirteen Perhaps too happily. Only a few minutes after I finish my food, my tummy starts to rumble. Not with hunger, but with rejection. I can feel bile building up in my gut, threatening to come back up. I cough repeatedly in an attempt to choke it back down.

DAD: Oh no, Lucky—

No, no, no—

With a final heave, half my dinner splats out on the floor in a hideous mess. I’m glad that it is out of me, but I can already feel myself getting hungry again. My digestive system just isn’t what it used to be.

year thirteen MOM: Poor baby. Let me get a rag.

Dad kneels down to pet me while Mom begins to mop up my mess. I can see a pang of sadness in her eyes as she watches me begin to groom my paws.

DAD: How old is he now? 12?

MOM: … 13, I think.

DAD: Ahhh. Well, he’s still got some years left in him. We all gotta hork once in awhile.

Mom is quiet for the rest of the night.

year thirteen On her next day off, her painter’s block seems to have dissipated. Her brush flies across the canvas with ease. When it dries, she takes a noisy drill to the wall in Daisy’s room and hangs it up next to her bed.

DAISY: It’s Lucky! You painted Lucky.

year thirteen year thirteen Mom picks me up and carries me into the bedroom, holding me up to see the painting. Supposedly, it is a picture of me.

MOM: Is that you, Lucky?

DAISY: It looks just like him.

MOM: Thank you, honey.

She sets me back on the floor. I remain in Daisy’s room for a long while, staring at my own supposed portrait.

It’s comforting to know that something of me will remain for her after I am gone.

year thirteen Lucky. year fourteen Though I thoroughly enjoy my playtime hours with Daisy, she begins to resent having only a cat for a playmate.

I know it is not my fault. There are things she wants to do that I cannot do with her. Most of them, in fact. I know that other humans make the best playmates for small humans, so I do not take it personally when Daisy declares herself bored.

Nor do I take it personally when she tells Mom and Dad she wants them to make her a playmate.

year fourteen The three of them are watching a movie on the couch—a droll holiday comedy. When the credits roll, Daisy pipes up out of her sleepy stupor.

DAISY: Daddy.

She’s currently going through a Dad phase. The month before last, it was all Mom all the time, and now it’s Dad or nothing.

Dad runs his hand through her hair.

DAD: Ready for bed?

She shakes her head.

year fourteen DAD: No? Well, it’s about time, kiddo.

She shakes her head again, harder this time. Mom and Dad exchange knowing looks, the kind they reserve for when they know Daisy is going to give them bedtime grief.

MOM: How about we have a glass of milk and a cookie, then go to bed?

Daisy pauses. I can tell she is understandably tempted by the offer of milk. She doesn’t shake her head, but she doesn’t leap up towards the kitchen, either.

DAISY: I was just, I was just thinking about the book we read about where babies come from.

year fourteen The color drains from Dad’s face. Mom, on the other hand, smiles wryly.

MOM: I told you you could ask any questions you had. What were you thinking about?

DAISY: I want a baby sister.

Dad glances at Mom. Her smile fades; it no longer reaches her eyes.

MOM: Not a baby brother?

Daisy wrinkles her nose and slides off the couch to toddle towards the kitchen.

DAISY: Well… I guess that would be okay too. You can have a baby.

year fourteen Mom and Dad are struck into silence. There is a sadness in their faces I cannot place. Perhaps it is the memory of the baby that came before Daisy that was lost.

Daisy opens the pantry and reaches for the cat treats, but she cannot reach the jar. I scamper towards her anyway and meow expectantly.

Mom gets up from the couch and retrieves the treat jar without a second thought, scattering a handful on the ground for me to scoop up. My teeth aren’t what they used to be, but I always have room for some treats.

year fourteen DAISY: When will the baby come?

MOM: There’s... there’s not a baby coming, honey.

Daisy studies her Mom’s body for a minute.

DAISY: If there were, you would have a fat belly.

Dad chimes in from the couch, ready to take the painful topic of pregnancy off Mom’s hands.

DAD: That’s right. Mommy had a fat belly when she was waiting for you to be born.

year fourteen DAISY: I wrote ‘baby sister’ on my Christmas list this year.

DAD: I’m sorry, sweetheart. There won’t be a baby sister for Christmas.

DAISY: After Christmas?

There is a long pause.

DAD: We will see.

year fourteen Daisy seems satisfied with the conversation. She is given her promised milk and cookies, and scarfs them down happily without bringing up the topic of babies or siblings again. She falls dead asleep within the hour.

That night, I join Mom and Dad in bed. It is still my favorite place to sleep, especially in the winter. I give them the space to embrace and lay myself at the foot of the bed, absorbing the heat from their soft plush sheets.

Dad wipes Mom’s gentle tears away with the corner of a throw blanket. They speak in hushed whispers, eager not to be overheard by Daisy.

year fourteen MOM: I don’t know how to explain it to her. There’s no book for it.

DAD: We haven’t looked for one. They have books for everything these days. If there’s a book for explaining where babies come from, there must be one that tells you how to address pregnancy loss.

MOM: … I still don’t know if I can do it. It’s not—it’s not that we couldn’t try.

Dad runs his fingers through Mom’s hair.

DAD: I can’t put you through that again. It’s too risky for you and the hypothetical baby. It was hard enough with Daisy. And we got so lucky with her.

year fourteen Mom is silent. She glances at me when Dad says the word “lucky”.

DAD: We could always look into adoption.

MOM: … I don’t think we can afford it. My coworker and his husband have been trying for two years now. They’ve been approved by their adoption agency for ages, but they keep running out of money for all the legal and medical stuff. All this crap no one tells you about. You’d think it would be easier to give a home to a baby that needs one. It’s not like the movies where you just walk into a hospital and a single teenage mom hands you her newborn.

year fourteen Dad sighs.

DAD: I know. I just hate for her to go through life without a sibling. It’s lonely being an only.

MOM: Lucas should have been here.

DAD: He should have.

They’re silent for a long time. I almost doze off before Mom pipes up again.

MOM: I’m glad she has Lucky to keep her company. He’s been such a good boy all these years.

year fourteen DAD: I think he misses Sylvia. Maybe it’s Lucky that needs a sibling. A fur-sister or fur-brother for Daisy.

Mom frowns a bit. I’m not sure how I feel about this idea, myself. Sure, Sylvia and I didn’t get along at first, but that was then, and this is now—now I am old and tired! Too old to meet new cats and possibly dislike them for any period of time.

I do miss Sylvia.

MOM: I don’t know if that’s a good idea at his age. He’s only ever known Sylvia and he took awhile to warm up to her.

year fourteen DAD: … You’re probably right. It might stress him out.

MOM: So where does that leave us on the sibling issue?

DAD: It’s lonely being an only, but even if we were to pop out a baby tomorrow, it’s not like she’d be able to play with it. It would be a few years before that kid became a playmate. What she needs is more friends.

MOM: … I ask her about friends at school and doesn’t have much to say. I know she talks about Evelyn sometimes, but I tried to get in touch with Evelyn’s mom for a playdate and got ghosted.

year fourteen I stand up in bed and nudge my way into Mom and Dad’s embrace. I lick Dad’s chin playfully. The bristles of his goatee feel pleasant against my rough, spiny tongue. He cringes.

DAD: Oh heeeey, cutie. Is that your way of telling us to go the heck to sleep?

MOM: Alright, alright. Good night, Lucky. You’re spared another cat for now.

The three of us drift off to sleep in a warm hug.

year fourteen Daisy lets the topic of a new sibling drop after Mom and Dad sit her down and explain to her that once upon a time, she had a baby brother who died before he was born. Instead, she begins to ask questions about the lost child—questions like, “I wonder what color his hair would have been”, and “I wonder if he would love cheese sticks like I do”.

I can see the pain in Mom and Dad’s faces as they struggle to answer these questions. But they trudge through them—and over time, they seem less pained and even happy to discuss them. They’re little more than the mere fantasies of a six-year-old with a fanciful imagination. But to our little family, her words give life to a ghost somewhere between limbo and heaven. A life that never came to be now comes to life through another.

year fourteen One night, when Daisy and I are curled up in bed, she wakes up in the middle of the night. I am lying awake, taking in the quiet of the darkness. She looks up and tells Lucas good night, before immediately drifting back to sleep.

The air in the bedroom feels a bit warmer that night.

year fourteen year fourteen Lucky. year fifteen The house is quieter these days, and so am I. I’ve taken to sleeping on Daisy’s bed during the day. She has a pink furry blanket at the foot of her bed that absorbs the heat of the sunlight in the most delightful way. They’re a welcome relief for my aching bones and chilly blood.

It means I am always in the right place to greet Daisy when she returns home from school. Often I do not stir until I hear her little footsteps pitter-pattering across the tile in the living room and towards her bedroom. She enters just in time to see me unfurl my body and stretch as wide as I can go, releasing the tension of my afternoon nap.

year fifteen That day, when Daisy comes home, she does not bring a friend. Nor does she bring a smile. She tosses her backpack on the floor and grabs a large notebook and a brightly colored pen. The pages inside are blank and perfectly lined for Daisy to begin writing whatever she pleases. I watch pensively, expecting her to carry her book and pen to the kitchen table to begin her schoolwork, but instead she lays down on the bed next to me, and places a hard book beneath her notebook.

I dig my claws into the bed and roll over on my back to watch Daisy begin to scribble away in her notebook. I watch as she wrinkles her nose in frustration, her already-messy handwriting becoming less coherent as she continues.

year fifteen Today Katey and her dumb freinds were mean to me again. I dont know why she dosn’t like me any more. I hate her. She said I am fat and look like a ugly pig and every one laghed at it. She also said some bad words I won’t right here. I didn’t cry at skool but I wanted to. I told Mrs. Adler and she told them to stop but they said I was lieing. I feel very sad Katey was my best freind and now she is so MEAN! Pigs are cute. I like them. What is wrong with a pig. I guess I am ugly I guess.

year fifteen Whatever it says, writing it down must be cathartic. She shuts the notebook and puts it back in its drawer before closing her bedroom door and shoving her face in her pillow. When she resurfaces, her tear-stained eyes land on me, flopped over on my back in all my glory, with my stomach flab pouring over the sides of me.

I am not as lithe as I used to be. Lowered activity levels will do that to you. But I am not bothered; I have earned my rest. And some extra flab can be a good thing. I remember how thin Sylvia was at the end, and shudder at the thought.

year fifteen I offer Daisy a sympathetic meow. Though human problems are often far beyond my comprehension, I can still feel her sadness—and my own desire to tear apart the people who have made her sad.

She sniffles, and cautiously reaches for my soft, exposed belly. It’s a bold move on her part—my belly is a sacred zone, my most vulnerable place. But she is one of the few people allowed to touch it. Within reason.

DAISY: You are kinda fat, Lucky. Fat and old.

year fifteen I cannot take offense to her words. After all, fat is every cat’s dream state—and old, well, I’m fortunate to have reached this age. There was a time when I was living in a metal cage at a store that sells dog leashes.

DAISY: But you are still so cute and I love you. If you were a person I would marry you. You are my best friend.

Daisy glances at the drawer where she stowed her notebook.

DAISY: Best friends are supposed to be nice to each other. Katey isn’t my best friend anymore because she is just the worst.

year fifteen Daisy is not great at picking me up. It’s true that I have accumulated some poundage in my elder years, and that my 14 pound frame is a bit hefty for a girl of her size to carry. But she tries, to my peril, lifting me up under my forelegs and giving me a booped kiss on the nose before setting me on the ground in a messy splat. I yowl mournfully as I stare back up at the bed. I was happy up there, damn it. And I’ve been using a small box as a step to get on her tall mattress, lately—but now it is nowhere to be found.

Her attention span is short, and she looks away from me to begin rearranging the stuffed animals on her bed. I resign myself to attempting the leap onto the bed—

And I don’t quite make it. Daisy turns just in time to see me flop to the floor and dash under the bed to escape my humiliating, geriatric failure.

year fifteen That night, while the three of them are eating a hearty dinner of lasagna, Daisy pipes up with a question.

DAISY: Daddy?

DAD: Yes, honey?

DAISY: … Lucky fell today.

Mom stops chewing and glances over at me, concerned.

MOM: He fell? How far? From what?

year fifteen DAISY: He tried to jump on my bed from the floor but didn’t quite make it. I think he is okay. But he needs help getting on the bed.

Mom frowns and turns to Dad, worried.

DAD: Do you want me to make Lucky a little set of stairs so he can get on your bed without help?

Daisy nods.

DAD: I’ll build them this weekend. In the meantime, why don’t you stack some boxes around your bed so she has somewhere to jump?

year fifteen A few days later, Daisy and I become the proud owners of a small set of wooden stairs, painted baby blue, that sit at the foot of her bed. Suddenly, getting into bed with my best friend is easy again.

As much as I love Mom, and Dad, and Sylvia, it turns out Sylvia was right all along. Daisy has become the best friend I’ve ever had.

year fifteen Lucky. year sixteen One morning, I wake up and I am not where I should be. It is somewhere I have been before, but it is not home.

I am behind the cold gray bars of a cage, with a tattered blanket and a bowl of crunchy kibbles. A smell is wafting through the air from a stinky neighbor. Beyond the cage I can see people milling around under fluorescent lights, examining products on shelves, putting them back or sticking them in their carts. I am back at the pet store, waiting for someone to come along and rescue me, awash with worries that it’s a miracle never meant to happen to me.

year sixteen Then, I hear the pitter-patter of small footsteps stomping around on the floor. I hear a woman’s voice calling out, “Daisy, where is your umbrella?” I smell something delicious and meaty. I am no longer in the pet store. The mirage vanishes, and I am back home where I should be. It is a strange interruption to my daily routine.

year sixteen Another morning, I awaken in Daisy’s bedroom, where I fell asleep the night before—and I find my food bowl placed before me, with Dad peeking around the corner of the door. When he sees me stirring, he breathes a sigh of relief.

DAD: He’s waking up now.

I hear footsteps dashing closer. Mom suddenly peeks her head in too.

MOM: Oh, thank goodness. He never sleeps through the sound of the can opening.

DAD: Poor guy’s just tuckered out lately.

year sixteen MOM: … Well, and he’s old. Like an eighty-year-old human.

DAD: … True. When you get to be that old, life’s just about enjoying what you have left of it. And trying to be as comfortable as possible. I don’t blame him.

I do nothing in a rush these days. When I stand up, my legs shake as I stretch out the tension, and I move to my food bowl to eat. They didn’t need to bring it in here. I would have made my way to the kitchen by the time I was hungry. But I cannot complain about room service, either.

year sixteen Sometimes it hurts to eat. Some of my teeth have fallen out, leaving me with worn gums and a few dulled fangs. Fortunately, Mom and Dad still feed me soft, meaty food I can swallow without needing to chew. But my mouth still aches as I lap up the meat.

I eat less these days because of it. The chub that Daisy said was cute has begun to melt away. My thin, youthful frame is returning, but I cannot say it’s a welcome weight loss.

year sixteen Mom and Dad have adjusted my litter box, much like they did for Sylvia in her final years. I no longer have to push through a flap, or climb over a tall edge to enter. After a few embarrassing accidents, they began lining the surrounding flooring with pads, in case I do not make it to the box before relieving myself.

I do not know how to tell them that sometimes it hurts when I go. Mostly, I do not want them to know. If they know I am weak, then I become a target. For whom, I do not know. But my instincts tell me I must conceal any signs of weakening.

year sixteen One day, I cannot drag myself over the edge of the box. Daisy watches as I squat miserably over the pads and close my eyes as I eliminate. There’s a sharp pain in my back half as my bladder empties, and I yowl in pain. Daisy’s eyes begin to water.

DAISY: Poor Lucky. Mommy, Lucky peed on one of the pee pads again.

year sixteen Mom comes out of the bathroom and frowns as I shake myself off and attempt to cover my urine on the pad. It never works, but I must always try.

MOM: … It’s okay, buddy. That’s what they’re there for.

Even though I know the rhythm of this song and dance, it still feels somehow shameful to expose my family to my slow decline. After I give up on burying my mess, I slink away to hide in a cubby in the laundry room.

year sixteen None of us want to believe my days are numbered. I do not feel ready to leave Daisy, or Mom, or Dad behind. But as the days pass, their faces become more blurred. My eyesight is fading. My sense of smell is waning. My sharp instincts are failing. And one evening, I find myself huddled in a corner of the house, staring at the wall, uncertain of where I am or where I want to be.

Deep down, I know I am at home. I am safe. I am loved. Nothing here can or will hurt me. But still, I am sinking into a frightening darkness. The voices of my family in the distance feel strangely unfamiliar, like the garbled voices of the people that used to poke at my cage at the pet store almost two decades ago. I am trapped in a memory.

year sixteen I am cold in my corner, until I feel a pair of hands wrap themselves around my trunk. I growl furiously in the stranger’s hands, waiting for them to come into my sight, but my vision remains blurry. I sniff the air for clues as to who might be handling me.

STRANGER: Sweet kitty, it’s me. It’s Mom. Please—please stop hissing. It’s just Mama.

As the stranger pulls me closer, something about her musky scent—the sweet undertones of vanilla, the faint sweat, the flowers from her shampoo—snap me back into reality. My heartbeat steadies as she brings me to her chest and clutches me tight, just like she did when I was a kitten.

year sixteen MOM: My sweet Lucky. I love you so much. I know you’re getting tired.

She carries me to her favorite spot on the couch and gently reclines with me, positioning my fragile thin body on her chest. I can feel her heart beating through her shirt. The rhythm is pleasantly grounding, and her chin is so close to my nose that I am fully inundated with her comforting scent.

Mom speaks to me in hushed whispers.

year sixteen MOM: I’ll keep you healthy and happy as long as I can. But I won’t let you suffer.

She rubs her finger across the bridge of my nose. I close my eyes in contentment, already ready to go back to sleep.

MOM: You’ve been such a good boy. Turns out I was the lucky one all along.

year sixteen Lucky. year seventeen The day before the last day of my life, I can barely move.

Mom and Dad carry me to my food bowl, but I do not want to eat. The mere smell of the food is revolting. If I had any bile left in me, I would evacuate it.

The two of them weep silently, holding each other and petting me in the kitchen. Daisy is at school, and I wonder if I will get to see her before the end comes.

year seventeen DAD: … Should I make the call?

Mom lets out a pained sob. She’s shaking her head and wiping tears with the sleeve of her shirt.

MOM: No, no no, I can’t, what if he feels better tomorrow?

Dad sniffles. I can tell even from a small distance that his nose is running.

DAD: If he feels better tomorrow, we’ll call the doctor and call it off.

year seventeen Mom says something, but her words are unintelligible through her sobs. She picks me up and cradles me as Dad dials something on his phone. I manage a gentle kiss for Mom on her chin, hoping this cheers her up. Unfortunately, it only seems to make her cry harder.

DAD: Yes, we’ll need Dr. Nguyen to make a house call. We don’t… we don’t want his last hours spent stressing out in his carrier. I think he will make it until tomorrow morning. … Yes. … Okay. Okay. … Thank you. Thank you so much, I appreciate your kind words. Goodbye.

year seventeen After Dad hangs up the phone, Mom hands me to him. He holds me like an infant, and I find myself melting gently into his arms. For a moment, I am blissfully unburdened of the pain of carrying myself, of hunger I cannot sate, of a bladder that refuses to serve me.

DAD: They said to just make him as comfortable as possible. Feed him whatever he wants. Lots of treats. Lots of love. Dr. Nguyen will come by at ten. They said they can give us—

Dad pauses to wipe his own tears. Mom bites her lip and looks away.

year seventeen DAD: They said they can give us the same style urn we have for Sylvia’s ashes.

MOM: … How are we going to tell Daisy?

Dad is silent. The question lingers like smoke over the room for several minutes as Mom and Dad sit with me in silence.

Daisy knows I am dying. She is 9 years old this year, and as perceptive and intelligent as ever. When she talks to me, she understands that I am mortal, that I am old, that I will not be around forever.

But children are fickle, and she is no exception.

year seventeen When Daisy returns home from her play date, I am resting in my bed in the window sill, soaking up the last hours of sun that I can while I am still here on Earth. She is in a good mood until she picks up on her parents’ mood—and my lethargy and untouched food bowl.

DAISY: … Hello. Is dinner going to be ready soon?

Dad and Mom exchange uncomfortable glances before patting an empty spot on the couch next to them.

DAD: Sweetheart, come here for a minute. We have to tell you about something.

year seventeen Why would they put it that way? That is always the worst thing you could say to someone. Daisy eyes them uneasily as she sits down on the couch. Mom is quick to embrace her.

DAD: … Um, the vet is coming over in the morning.

Daisy is silent.

DAISY: … Is Lucky sick?

There’s a brief pause, and Daisy shakes her head. Deep down, she knows this is a foolish question. Her eyes start to water.

year seventeen DAISY: Is Lucky dying?

Mom sniffles. Her tears begin flowing silently down her cheeks and into Daisy’s hair.

For me, the cruelest part is not having the strength to get up and comfort them over my own inevitable demise.

MOM: Lucky isn’t eating. He’s in pain.

DAD: The doctor is coming to the house tomorrow morning. He’s going to help Lucky die without any more pain.

year seventeen DAISY: You’re killing my best friend…

Daisy stops wiggling and breaks down into sobs, clutching her mother. Dad closes in on the two of them and locks them in a tight embrace.

DAD: We would never do that. What we are doing for Lucky is helping him pass in peace. To die without pain or suffering.

He kisses her on the top of the head.

year seventeen DAD: Giving Lucky the chance to die without pain is the most best friend thing you could do for him. We promise.

DAISY: I’m going to be all alone. Please don’t let Lucky die. I love him.

Mom’s heart is shattered. I can see it in her face that she would love nothing more than to be curled up in bed, just the two of us, retreating into the old days. Or perhaps it is I that would love that more than anything. I cannot tell anymore.

year seventeen That night, Mom and Dad set up a sleeping bag for Daisy in the living room next to my heated cat bed. They line the surrounding area with pee pads so that I can relieve myself without walking to the litter box. And miracle of miracles, I manage to down some food when Daisy opens up a can of real albacore tuna—a rare treat for a lucky cat. I don’t throw it up, either!

When I go to sleep that evening, I find myself wondering if it’s actually time to go. If I am actually ready. After an evening of love, care, and treats, I feel like I could fly on a second wind. (Though we may be way past the second wind at this point. An eighth wind.)

year seventeen As I drift off to sleep on my last night on Earth, I find myself recalling Sylvia’s words. She said that I would be ready. But unlike Sylvia, I am not leaving behind a young cat to take my place in my family’s life. I am simply leaving. All I can do is hope that I have served my purpose on this plane the best that I can—and that I will leave behind loved ones better for the wear.

That night, I have a lovely dream. I am outdoors in the warm sun, running across a grassy field. My bones are strong like they were when I was young. Sylvia is waiting for me on the other end of the field; she too looks youthful and healthy. I never saw her like this, yet I know that it is her. We chase unsuspecting mice until we flop over in the grass and take a nap in the heat of the afternoon. Despite the lack of rain, a rainbow paints its way across the clear blue sky.

year seventeen The man in white comes one last time.

Mom and Dad set up my bed in the center of the living room, where they gather around me as the doctor rummages through his bag for his tools. My family are kneeled around me, taking turns stroking my ungroomed fur. I am warm and comfortable as can be.

DAD: You’ve been the best little cat, Lucky. Keep Sylvia company for me when you get to heaven, okay?

I look Dad in the eye as if to tell him that’s exactly what I intend to do. Whatever heaven might be.

year seventeen The doctor turns to us, holding a syringe. He looks at Mom and Dad knowingly, and then to Daisy.

DR. NGUYEN: Daisy, there are going to be two shots. This first one is going to take away all of Lucky’s pain. He’ll feel better than he’s felt in a long time. It will help him go to sleep and have nice dreams.

Daisy sniffles and nods.

DR. NGUYEN: The second shot will stop his heartbeat. He will be fully asleep, so he won’t feel any pain.

year seventeen Dad nods at Dr. Nguyen from behind Daisy’s head and mouths “thank you”.

DAISY: You p-promise?

Dr. Nguyen nods solemnly,

DR. NGUYEN: I promise. Lucky is—well, lucky—he has a family that loves him enough to know when it’s time to let go. It’s the most selfless thing you can do.

year seventeen Dad nods at Dr. Nguyen from behind Daisy’s head and mouths “thank you”.

DAISY: You p-promise?

Dr. Nguyen nods solemnly,

DR. NGUYEN: I promise. Lucky is—well, lucky—he has a family that loves him enough to know when it’s time to let go. It’s the most selfless thing you can do.

year seventeen year seventeen Mom lifts me into her arms, swallowing her sobs. Dad rubs his hands on her back and on Daisy’s back, comforting the two of them between his own tears. Daisy reaches for one of my paws, stroking my pink toe pads between her small fingers.

I feel the tiny prick of the needle as it enters my side, but the sensation is gone almost as soon as it strikes. The doctor withdraws the needle.

DR. NGUYEN: It will take about ten minutes for him to fall asleep. I will step outside to give you all some time.

MOM: Th-thank you, doctor.

year seventeen As the doctor leaves, I begin to feel my body mellowing out. A warm feeling slowly spreads from the injection site to my chest, my head, and my limbs. The soreness in my bladder numbs. My mind remains foggy, but I do not fret; I know I am in my Mom’s arms and that if this is where I am to die, then I have truly lived the life I was meant to.

I feel Daisy squeeze my paw.

DAISY: I love you, Lucky. You’re my best friend. I’ll miss you forever.

I love you too, Daisy. Loving you is by far the best thing I did with my time on this Earth. Making you happy made Mom happy, and I have Mom to thank for my beautiful life. I’m only sorry to be leaving you behind so soon.

year seventeen DAD: You were such a good boy. So good to us. And to Sylvia. Even though you didn’t like her at first.

A smile tugs at his lips. Mom can’t help but smile too, through her tears.

MOM: Yes, he hissed when you guys moved in. He was so mad.

She looks down at me and covers my head with kisses. I can feel my eyes growing heavy.

MOM: Lucky, when I walked into the pet store all those years ago, I didn’t expect to come home the next day with a cat. But there was something about you… something so gentle and fun. To this day I know it was not I who chose you, but you who chose me.

year seventeen I am purring. For the first time in years, I am free of the pains of my elderly body. I can feel myself dozing off as Mom’s tears stream down my fur.

MOM: I’m so, so glad I got to be your mom. So glad you picked me. I wouldn’t be here without you. I love you.

year seventeen My eyelids become too heavy to keep open.

year seventeen The last thing I remember is falling asleep and having the same wonderful dream I had the night before. When my heart stops beating, I flee my earthly shell and cross over into the world beyond.

year seventeen Lucky. epilogue “Heaven” is a lovely place.

epilogue Sylvia is here with me—beautiful, young, and spry, but with all the wisdom she carried with her when she passed. We get to play all the games I always wanted to play with her on Earth, now that we are both of healthy, strong body.

There are humans here who have crossed over. None of our humans, yet. We are looking forward to seeing them, but want them to have as much time on Earth together as possible before we are reunited.

There are other cats, too. Some of them died happy in the arms of their families, like we did. Others, as I’ve discovered, are not so lucky. They’ve died under car wheels, or from gunshots, or in floods or wildfires. Or they never found families, and passed peacefully in the arms of a weeping shelter worker.

Those who never found love on Earth find love here. Our bowls are always full. The sun is always shining. There are more than enough cozy beds and toys and treats to go around. Every day is a new kind of blessing.

epilogue At the edge of heaven, there is a door. It is a door that returns us to Earth, and we are able to come and go as we please. When we visit, no one can see or hear us, so it can be a bit lonely—or so I hear.

I have yet to visit my family. A year has passed since my last day on Earth, though for me, it feels as if it were just yesterday. Today, I stand at the edge of heaven and contemplate venturing to the other side. Sylvia is with me, batting her tail curiously.

SYLVIA: Will you be going?

ME: … I want to. But I’m afraid I will be sad.

epilogue SYLVIA: You will be sad. But you will also be happy.

ME: Did you ever come to visit us?

SYLVIA: A couple of times. Remember what I told you about the wind and the oak tree?

I do. And I remember feeling it, too. I wonder if I can be the same for Daisy.

epilogue ME: … I just want to have a short visit. See how much Daisy has grown.

SYLVIA: Then go. Just don’t stay too long… If we linger in our last nine lives, then we cannot fully move on to the next.

With a deep breath, I leap through the door and make my return to Earth.

epilogue ME: … I just want to have a short visit. See how much Daisy has grown.

SYLVIA: Then go. Just don’t stay too long… If we linger in our last nine lives, then we cannot fully move on to the next.

With a deep breath, I leap through the door and make my return to Earth.

epilogue In a flash, I find myself in my old neighborhood. I am in front of the elementary school where I once spent a few nights on an adventure. It is early afternoon, and children are milling about in the front of the building. It must be time for them to go home.

Which means Daisy must be around somewhere.

I rest in the branches of a nearby tree, scouting for Daisy in the throngs of schoolchildren. But it is not Daisy I spot first—it’s Mom.

epilogue Mom is approaching the front of the school building. She looks the same as ever, save for a bulging belly. My heart leaps for joy; she must be giving birth soon. I zoom out of the tree and dash towards Mom. I know that she can’t see me, but perhaps she will feel me if I rub up against her legs.

Or not.

Daisy comes out of the building shortly after. She has grown taller and slimmer. She cut her hair short and is wearing a tennis uniform. Most importantly, she’s wearing a great big smile—and she waves goodbye to some classmates her age with a promise to text them later.

epilogue DAISY: Hi, Mom. How was the ultrasound?

Mom puts her arm around Daisy’s shoulder and the two of them start off down the sidewalk.

MOM: It was wonderful. The technician said he’s going to be a big boy.

As the three of us walk together, I catch a sound downwind—a small squeak. I briefly abandon my post at my family’s side and zoom ahead to the source of the noise.

epilogue epilogue In the bushes is a tiny stray kitten. She has deep black fur and glowing green eyes. Her mother is nowhere to be found; she may already be weaned.

If I know anything about my mom and my Daisy, it’s that they would never leave a creature in need to suffer. But I do not believe the kitten is squeaking loud enough to get their attention. And thus far, my leg rubs and meows are going unnoticed, as expected.

epilogue As they begin to approach the kitten’s location, I recall Sylvia’s words about the wind. I make a mad dash in the opposite direction, leaving a whistle of wind behind me that shivers Mom and Daisy to their bones and stops them dead in their tracks.

DAISY: Wow, did you feel that? Spooky autumn breeze.

MOM: We need to go shopping for a new scarf for you.

The kitten peeps loudly. I can pinpoint the moment Daisy hears her; her head turns directly towards the bush.

MOM: We can go to—

DAISY: Shhhh!

epilogue Mom is about to be offended, until Daisy holds her hand up and points at the bush. Mom drops her voice to a whisper.

MOM: What are we doing, honey.

DAISY: I heard something.

The kitten squeaks again.

Daisy stoops down and comes eye to eye with the adorable black kitten. The kitten mewls at her and Daisy gasps.

epilogue DAISY: Hello baby! You are so tiny! Where did you come from?

MOM: A cat? A kitten. Awww! She’s so little!

Daisy scoops the kitten up in her arms. She immediately clings to Daisy’s body, not unlike the way I once did when I met Mom.

epilogue As Daisy carries the kitten home, I know that my time on Earth is once again at an end. I leave as quickly and silently as I came, and re-cross the threshold into heaven, where Sylvia is waiting for at the gate.

SYLVIA: So? How was it?

ME: … I think everything is going to be alright.

epilogue As Daisy carries the kitten home, I know that my time on Earth is once again at an end. I leave as quickly and silently as I came, and re-cross the threshold into heaven, where Sylvia is waiting for at the gate.

SYLVIA: So? How was it?

ME: … I think everything is going to be alright.

epilogue I was named Lucky for my miraculous rescue from drowning in a storm drain. Though I did not feel Lucky at the time, I now look back on my life and find that I was given the best name possible.

epilogue Thank you for sharing my story. I hope that you too will be lucky enough in this lifetime to love and be loved by someone the way I have. A cat’s years may occupy but a brief blip in the grand timeline of your human lifespan, but I think we are well-equipped for making those years magical.

epilogue feedback?

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