Henley is our spirited not so little orange cat with an enormous and decidedly un-cat-like personality. He is the undisputed star of our home and, by a fairly wide margin, its most popular family member. He greets every visitor, appoints himself the sleeping companion of every overnight guest whether they like it or not, and will even try to hop into their cars as though he has somewhere important to be. His arrival, however, was hardly a Disney adoption story. He was dropped off by someone our family referred to as “He Who Shall Not Be Named,” so while we were relieved to see him go, none of us was thrilled about the cat he left behind. Fortunately, that lasted about five minutes. Henley quickly went from “Why is this cat here?” to the ridiculous orange creature that none of us could imagine living without.
Henley possesses all the confidence traditionally associated with cats and almost none of the grace. He once tripped while walking up the stairs because he was staring directly at me instead of looking where he was going. He did not glance away afterward or pretend it had not happened. He just kept looking at me as though I had somehow caused the stairs to move beneath him. That is Henley. Deeply confident, occasionally coordinated, and never responsible.
What he lacks in balance, however, he makes up for in courage, or possibly poor judgment. Henley once took on a neighborhood coyote and won. Technically, “won” meant that Henley survived and I spent nearly $5,000 putting him back together, but a victory is a victory. At the time, I posted on social media, “Has anyone ever spent $5,000 on pussy? I had.” The veterinary bill was painful, but the joke practically wrote itself. More importantly, Henley was safe, and I would have spent every penny all over again.
That is how pets get you. One day, an animal you did not ask for is dropped off at your house, and the next thing you know, his food has its own line in the household budget and you are handing over $5,000 because he made a terrible tactical decision involving a coyote. Somewhere along the way, the distinction between “pet” and “family” disappears. Their food becomes part of the grocery list, their medical care becomes a household expense, and their preferred sleeping location becomes whatever chair you were foolish enough to think belonged to you.
Henley has also given me much more than expensive veterinary bills and stories about his questionable intelligence. During one of the darkest periods of my life, when I was deeply depressed, he saved me. He did not offer advice, tell me to think positively, or suggest that I try exercising more. He simply stayed with me. He needed me, loved me, and gave me a reason to keep going on days when getting through the day felt nearly impossible. Sometimes it takes a trained professional to help us understand why our lives matter. Sometimes it takes an orange cat who cannot successfully navigate a staircase.
Recently, Henley became very sick. He stopped eating, lost weight, and, most unsettling of all, stopped acting like Henley. His enormous personality seemed to disappear almost overnight, and the whole house felt different without it. At first, I thought he might be depressed because someone he loved had been away for a few weeks. It was hard to imagine anything being physically wrong with him because Henley has always seemed indestructible. This is, after all, a cat who fought a coyote and lived to tell the tale, presumably after rewriting the story to make himself look even more heroic.
Thankfully, he is being treated and should recover. Unfortunately, Henley has apparently decided that one $5,000 medical crisis was not enough for his lifetime and has now cost me another $5,000. At this point, I have spent approximately $10,000 on pussy, which is either a tremendous display of love or evidence that I make questionable financial decisions whenever an orange cat is involved. Either way, I would spend it again. The money can be replaced. Henley cannot.
In the meantime, he looks at me with complete trust while I give him medicine he does not want, take him to places he does not like, and generally interfere with his plans to be left alone. He has no idea what is wrong or why I keep bothering him. He only knows that I am his person and, despite the indignity of it all, I am going to take care of him. It is the same uncomplicated devotion he gave me when I needed someone to take care of me.
Pets make our lives better in the most wonderful and ridiculous ways. They make us laugh, worry, rearrange our schedules, surrender our furniture, and spend outrageous amounts of money without hesitation. They comfort us without requiring explanations and love us when we are not feeling especially lovable. Their bodies may be small, but their personalities take over entire houses, and the space they occupy in our lives is enormous.
Henley may have entered our home without ceremony, or our consent, but he became family without question. He is clumsy enough to trip over stairs, foolish enough to challenge a coyote, expensive enough to require his own financial disclosures, and loving enough to pull me through a time when I was struggling to save myself. I thought we had reluctantly given him a home. As it turns out, the little orange ball of fur was helping make it one.
🐱 Charlotte