Halfway

I adore cats. 

My childhood cat, Macy, has been my best friend for 14 years now. She’s always been a cuddler—soft, loyal, and sure of her place in my life.  

She knows when bedtime is. Every night, without fail, she’ll follow me straight into my room and crawl under the blankets beside me. Her purring became the white noise of my childhood. I’d hear it and it would soothe me back to sleep when I’d have nightmares as a child, when I was crying too loudly over a boy, or when I was just stressed; her purrs were always there to comfort me. 

It was the kind of comfort I didn’t know I’d someday miss. 

Lately, I’ve started to notice she doesn’t have much longer left. Her steps are slower, and her meows are softer. And even though she’s still here, I find myself already missing her in small ways. Like when I come home after being at college, and she doesn’t come right up to me anymore. 

I went the first two years of college without a cat. No fur on my clothes, no tiny paws on my chest at 3 a.m., no purring to lull me to sleep. I didn’t realize how much I’d miss that sound until it was gone. 

Then there’s Boogie. 

Madam Boogie of Highbridge II if we’re being technical. 

Boogie is my new cat—my emotional support animal, though she doesn’t cuddle. In fact, she does everything but cuddle. 

There’s an ongoing joke with my friends that she likes rage baiting me—stealing pens off of tables, darting across the living room just when she lets you pet her, pushing things off edges—but I think she just likes to make herself known. 

She does, however, beg for pets at 6 a.m.—pressing her tiny head into my blanket abyss, tail held high like a happy flag. 

My favorite thing is when a new cat comes to me with a happy tail, that little curve at the top that says, I trust you. When Boogie does it, it’s like she’s saying, I know you need me right now. 

Since starting college and only seeing Macy a few times, I’ve caught myself thinking that Boogie is the pre-replacement. The thought makes me feel guilty, like I’m betraying the cat who raised me. 

We all know how, when an animal goes, we want to fill that void. But we can’t. no one really can.

Macy is Macy. Boogie is Boogie. 

Boogie isn’t a replacement, she’s what I needed. 

She’s new to this life, just like me. I’m 20, still figuring everything out in the real world, and so is she. She’s clumsy sometimes. She’s stubborn. She doesn’t always know what she wants, and honestly, neither do I. But we’re learning together. 

She’s not the kind of cat who loves loudly. She loves in subtle ways: the way she follows me from room to room, the quiet companionship of her sitting nearby when I study, or the way she looks up at me like she’s been here before and knows I’ll be okay eventually. 

She meets me halfway. 

When Macy can’t be there, Boogie is. Different, but dependable. A reminder that love can change form, but it doesn’t disappear. 

And maybe that’s why I’ve always been obsessed with cats—not just mine, but every single cat I have ever met. I’ve cat-sat for friends, pet strangers’ cats on sidewalks, and even pulled my car over because I saw a cat sitting on the side of the road. At work, I feed the strays that sit outside just because.

Each one leaves behind a spark of something good. 

Cats, to me, are pure good. They’re silly little furballs that somehow hold the world together. 

I think about every cat I’ve pet—the anxious ones who hide under beds, the sleepy ones who stretch in the sun, and the strays who let me touch them for just a second before sprinting away while hissing. Each one feels like a glimpse of something sacred, in a small furry form. 

Every time I reach my hand out and a cat meets me halfway, I feel the world slow down. 

For a moment, it’s just me, the cat, and the simple joy of being alive together. 

• #cat
• #catperson
• #colle
• #family
• #love