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ILLUSTRATION BY DREW SHANNON

First Person is a daily personal piece submitted by readers. Have a story to tell? See our guidelines at tgam.ca/essayguide.

We first spotted Luna online. Her name wasn’t Luna then, but Octavia, and she was all fluff and sass in the Toronto Humane Society’s photo. On her profile, there was a special note indicating that she had behavioural issues, and shouldn’t be placed in a household with children or other animals.

“I don’t care, she’s cute,” my boyfriend said flippantly. Fair enough.

We looked at all the cats in the shelter, but business was booming on that early January day, and we could tell we’d have to move quickly to get one of the “normal” cats. Then we noticed that we had missed a room. Inside were a handful of cat condos, where cats who couldn’t hack it in the cages upstairs were placed. I recognized Octavia, the same cat we had seen online, displaying her spiky-furred side profile.

When we told the shelter staff that we chose Octavia, they were shocked and delighted. They reminded us over and over again that she was “difficult,” “independent” and “erratic.” I felt a special kinship with Octavia right then, as those were all words that had been used to describe me.

I was on leave from work after a series of stressful incidents had led to a nervous breakdown, compounded by the realization that I needed to stop using alcohol to cope with anxiety. I was uncertain about what I would do next, and a little angry at being labelled a “problem employee” by my boss.

In short, I was willing to take a chance on a little creature that was unwilling to conform to society’s expectations of how she should behave. It’s possible I was projecting a tad.

When we got home, Octavia had nearly shredded the box in her rage, at least it made it easy for me to let her out.

She found the one place I didn’t want her to go – the closet – and proceeded to burrow into my laundry hamper. I politely asked her to get out, at which point I was met with angry hisses and what felt like an attempt on my life or at least the integrity of the skin on my arm. My boyfriend was out getting cat supplies, so I couldn’t call for backup. The cat would stay in the closet for now.

Alone and desperate for advice, I called my mother, who ran a shelter for cats. She assured me our cat was likely just a little stressed from the new environment. She then asked me why on Earth I had chosen such a difficult cat that I would probably never be able to cuddle.

I have since thought a lot about the answer to my mother’s question, especially since the sentiment has been echoed by a number of other people. Is it that I don’t think a cat should die just because it doesn’t want to cuddle? Or that cats come in a range of personalities, and that’s perfectly fine? Or perhaps that cats don’t exist solely for my amusement, and that we should let them be self-determining creatures?

I’d like to think the answer is one of the above, but I think it’s much simpler and less noble. We just thought she was cute. Maybe it’s also that the unruly cat reminded me of myself, and I desperately wanted to believe that things would work out for me, too.

As my boyfriend and I cuddled up in bed on that first night, I prayed that our new feline companion would not slit our throats during the night with her frequently exposed teeth. The next day, he told me that she had sneaked onto the bed behind him and timidly curled up at his back.

Over the next few weeks, we endured many scratches and bites as we got used to our new family member. We changed Octavia’s name to Luna, a nod to the black cat in Sailor Moon, and we tried to give her everything she needed. We bought her toys, catnip, a little bed from IKEA that was meant for a child’s doll, and even a “cat hammock” that stuck to the window. Luna seemed happy, but also a little broken. When I petted her for too long, she would suddenly attack, then look at me mournfully after the fact, as if even she was confused as to why she was so difficult.

Luna stayed with me through the days I spent alone at home as I tried to figure out what I was going to do next. Luna watched me quietly as I relapsed one morning. She looked puzzled as I guzzled my IPA of choice while packing up.

I woke up the next day at a friend’s house crying partly because I missed my boyfriend and partly because I missed Luna and the little family we had formed. I was back by suppertime that day.

We ordered pizza when I returned and as the delivery guy handed my boyfriend the box, he spotted Luna. “Aw, she’s so cute!” he exclaimed as he bent down to pet her. She proceeded to attack him. I was happy to be back with my cat.

Luna stayed with me as I spent my days writing, and then she had to adjust to days alone when I finally returned to my nine-to-five job.

She’s still not a well-adjusted cat but she no longer flies into a rage in the middle of a petting session.

Recently, Luna managed to slip into the hallway and we encountered some neighbours. They instantly fell in love with Luna and insisted on petting her, even after I warned them. To my surprise, Luna received the affection with warmth and passed for a normal cat in that moment. I was so proud of how far we had come. My optimism was tempered later that day when she attempted to bite my face. Two steps forward and one step back, I guess.

Seeing Luna change from an intensely aggressive cat to a mildly aggressive cat has been gratifying (I’m less optimistic about my own ability to change), and she really has made me feel like I am finally part of a family again. But I’d say the biggest lesson I’ve learned from the world’s continued tolerance of jerks like me and Luna is that you can get away with a lot when you’re cute.

Kristen Pyszczyk lives in Toronto.

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