Misty is not the first cat in my life. I already had a relationship with a cat but I never share that story because even now, 30 years later, I feel horrible about it.
In Ukraine, I lived in a large apartment building, like we all did. There were many stray animals back then. Crowds of stray animals. Inside the entrance of my apartment building, there lived a stray cat. Every time I’d come home from the university, the cat would follow me to my apartment and I’d feed her and play with her. She always wanted to leave and insisted I let her out once she was done playing.
We had regular blackouts. Can you imagine a blackout in a big city? It’s fucking scary. I’d have to go up to the fourth floor in complete darkness, unlock the door and go inside, every time fearing that there would be a rapist hiding somewhere on the staircase. 1990s, and the crime situation was not great.
Once, I climbed up to my apartment in the dark, unlocked the door with shaking hands, but when I tried to close it behind me, it wouldn’t close. Like somebody had put a foot in to prevent it from closing. Yes, I should have remembered the cat. But I was terrified and not thinking straight. So I started pulling the door against the imaginary rapist I thought was trying to force his way in. I persevered until the poor cat who had followed me upstairs as usual in hopes of food and a cuddle managed to make a sound.
The cat was fine. She didn’t die or anything. But she never wanted to come near me after that.
The funny thing is that I was married at that time. Not to N, obviously. Strangely, it never occurred to anybody that my husband who was living on the money I was making that entire time could walk me home in the dark.
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