Before my parents were married, they would exchange love letters. Sometimes in the form of enveloped letters or through warm words written on the backs of photographs. My parents’ correspondence spanned over 6 years, starting from the year 1990, and ending a few years after my birth.
I found their letters a few years ago, dumped in an old box in our garage. And though my parents insisted that I throw them away, I kept them. As you can see, I’ve filed every letter and photograph into a small cardboard box and I’ve even organized them by year.
You’re probably wondering why I’m telling you all of this. So, I’ll get to the point.
Today, my parents had a huge falling out. A huge one. A fight full of screaming, throwing heavy objects, hurtful words and black rage that sliced through our home like a jagged knife. They ended their argument with the words I hate you and I don’t want to be with you anymore.
At this point, I took my little brother and sister out of the house and took them to the park where we hung out until our dad came and picked us up. We then spent the rest of the day avoiding home.
But, of course, we eventually ran out of places to hide and had to return. The fighting began again. Overflowing with pitch black anger and hatred. It went on and on, and though I tried to calm things down, my words were tossed aside. At the end of my rope, I went to my trunk and pulled out the box of love letters that I had kept all these years and dumped the letters all over the kitchen table.
The fighting gradually gave in to silence.
Finally, my dad reached over and picked up a stack of the letters.
"You kept these?"
He began taking some of the letters out of their envelopes and reading through them. Eventually, my mom started reading them, too. The silence was finally lifted when my dad started chuckling.
"I can’t believe you kept them."
I didn’t say anything then. They read their letters for a while longer before we re-filed them into the box, and I rushed upstairs to type out this story for you.
I guess what I wanted to say, is that it’s easy to forget things. Like how you fell in love with your husband, the times you enjoyed with your best friends, and the things that made you happy. It’s easy to dismiss those little things as insignificant as the years go by and to go on in life thinking that they don’t matter anymore. But sometimes, holding onto those things isn’t such a waste, after all.
Sometimes a little reminder is all you need.
This was meant to be a quick warm up, but it turned into a comic that I’ve wanted to draw for a while. This is something that is extremely important to me, and I appreciate it if you read it.
A while ago, I heard a story that broke my heart. A family went a cat shelter to adopt. The daughter fell in love with a 3-legged cat. The father straight up said “absolutely not”. Because he was missing a leg. That cat was that close to having a family that loved him, but the missing leg held him back. Why?!
Many people have the initial instinct of “nope” when they see an imperfect animal. I get it, but less-adoptable does NOT mean less loveable. 9 out of 10 people will choose a kitten over an adult cat. And those 10% that would get an adult cat often overlook “different” animals.
All I want people to do is be open to the idea of having a “different” pet in their lives. Choose the pet that you fall in love with, but at least give all of them a fair shot at winning your heart.
Don’t dismiss them, they deserve a loving home just as much as any other cat. They still purr, they still love a warm lap, they still play, they still love you. Trust me, next time you are in the market for a new kitty, just go over to that one cat that’s missing an eye and see what he’s all about!
Let me tell to you a thing.
This is Lenore. I first saw her in a little cage at the Petco I frequent (I used to take my parents’ dog in for puppy play time), and she looked like the grouchiest, old, crotchety cat in the world, and I fell instantly in love. She was cranky, she was anti-social, hanging out at the back of her cage. Her fur was matted because she wouldn’t let the groomers near her.
She was perfect.
But I didn’t have a place for her. I wasn’t living in my own space yet, and where I was, I wasn’t allowed cats. So I pressed my face to the bars of her cage and I promised that if no one had adopted her by the time I’d bought a house, I would come back for her.
I visited her every week for over six months while I looked for a house. At one point, they had to just shave her entire rear-end because the mats or fur were so bad. They told me she clawed the heck outta the groomer that did it, screamed the entire time, and spent the next two days growling at anyone that came near the cage.
A couple of weeks later, I closed on my house. I went back and I got an employee, and I said: “That one. I need that cat.”
They got the paperwork and the lady who ran the rescue that was bringing the cats in told me that Lenore (at the time, Lila) was 8 years old, had been owned by an elderly lady who had died, and brought in to a different rescue, who’d had her for six months on top of the time I’d been seeing her at Petco.
This kitty had been living in a 3x3’ cube for over a YEAR because she was older and “less adoptable.”
I signed the paperwork, put her in a cat carrier, and drove her to my new home. I had pretty much nothing; a bed, an old couch, a couple of bookcases, and a tank of mice I called “Cat TV”. I let her out of the carrier and onto my bed, and I told her “I told you I would come back for you when I had a place. It’s not much, but it’s yours too now.”
Lenore spent the next three days straight purring non-stop. She followed me around the house purring. Sat next to me purring. Slept next to me purring. Leaning into every touch, purring, purring, always purring. She still purrs if you so much as think about petting her. She’s amazing, and I love her.
So, you know, if you’re thinking about adopting, and you see a beast that others consider “less adoptable,” think about Lenore.
THIS POST MAKES ME SO SAD, I JUST WANT TO HUG ALL THE KITTIES ;-;
i’ve said it before and i’ll say it again
YOU DO NOT NEED TO BRING YOUR GUN TO THE GROCERY STORE
how does america even function like it sounds like a video game or something. grand theft freedom.