Proof The Bible Is True

‘‘You don’t want that one,” the shelter volunteer said. “He’s broken.”

 

“Broken?” I asked. Had I heard her correctly? I looked down at the black cat sitting on my foot. He trilled softly. The minute I’d walked into the animal shelter’s cat room, he’d been one step behind me, my shadow. I wasn’t an expert, but this cat seemed friendly.

 

“He’s been a stray since birth,” the volunteer explained. “He doesn’t like anyone—not other cats, not dogs, not people. Sometimes they’re out there way too long. He’s already three years old. At a certain point, it’s nearly impossible for them to be fully domesticated.”

 

“I want to adopt him,” I said.

 

“Really?” she asked. There were several other cats up for adoption, cats that were socialized and would be easier for a first-time owner. “Why?”

 

“Because he needs a home,” I said. Then under my breath, “And because I’m broken too.”

 

It was 2017. I’d been in therapy for a while, but it was only recently that my therapist suggested I get an animal companion—preferably something low-maintenance, like a cat. It would be good for me. Maybe even help me form connections with people. I didn’t know if I believed that. But I went to my local shelter.

 

I don’t know what it was about that little black cat, but I immediately felt a kinship with him. Two abandoned peas in a pod, I guess. I filled out the paperwork and left with him that afternoon.

 

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