She’s one of us—our human, our person. Together, we've weathered many storms: dark days, near-homelessness, and moments when survival seemed uncertain. Yet, through it all, I’ve always known she’d persevere. I just wish she could see herself the way we see her, to understand the light she brings to our lives and the lives of others.
She dreams of being a writer and has spent years pouring her thoughts into diaries. I often meow to her that she should share those writings with the world. The journey we’ve taken together, the hardships endured, and the resilience we've shown might inspire other cats and cat-loving humans. Who knows? Maybe adding a touch of humor to our survival tales could brighten someone’s day.
We live in a castle perched high above the ground—a lofty haven. I, of course, am an elegant indoor cat, far too dignified to roam the outside world. She always says, “You’d be stolen or hit by a car in an hour,” and I must admit, she’s probably right. My survival skills are nonexistent, and I depend entirely on her. Letty, however, is my complete opposite. She was born on the rough side of town, the product of a bait-and-switch scheme. Her original humans tried to pass her off as a Bengal kitten for £250. When her lack of markings made the con obvious, they dropped the price to £0. Naturally, when something seems too good to be true, well, you know how the saying goes. That’s how we ended up with the naughtiest cat you’ll ever meet. If there’s trouble, Letty’s in it—or creating it herself.
I remember the first time I saw her as a kitten, walking precariously along the upstairs window sill. She had her own room back then, and I hadn’t formally met her yet. Astonished, I couldn’t look away. “What are you staring at, Lila?” our human asked as she stroked my head. Then, she noticed too—and moved faster than I’d ever seen her move to stop Letty’s antics. That’s just Letty: impossible to contain. She shimmies down drainpipes and disappears into the fields, only to return when it suits her. Lately, she’s even taken to hiding in the car when our human goes away for weekends in London.
Letty’s wild spirit baffles me. She does whatever she pleases, and somehow, we’ve all come to accept it. Despite her mischief, I suppose we’ve grown rather fond of her over the years.
Then, there’s Queen Bea—just Bea to her friends. She’s a dog (yes, a dog) named after a character in an Australian prison drama our human and her ex used to watch. Unlike her namesake, Bea’s personality couldn’t be more different. For a dog, she’s tolerable—sometimes even endearing. On occasion, I’ll share a bed with her. She’s not particularly bright, but I have to admit, she’s acceptable company.
And finally, there's her—our human, the heart of our “furmily.” A stereotypical cat lady in her early 40s with big knickers and a librarian’s soul, she’s as kind as they come. Over the years, I’ve watched her change, grow, and become stronger. Recently, I’ve seen her take control of a part of herself she once thought unmanageable. Her therapist says she’s reached the point where the raft she clung to for years—the one that kept her afloat during her struggles—is no longer serving her. It’s time to let go of that raft because it’s sinking. Just ahead, there’s a boat on the horizon—sturdy, beautiful, and equipped with everything she needs, not just to survive, but to truly thrive.
She is at the exact moment is time where she must release herself from dark cloak weighing her down and believe that she has the strength to get to the next boat. Because I do. I know she can make it.
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