I never thought I would love a cat let alone live with one. Most of my life, I hated them. I’m not exaggerating. Their very presence used to annoy me. I didn’t want them near my house, near my feet, near my things. I hated their fur, their piss, their meows, the way they acted like they owned the world. I didn’t just dislike them, I mistreated them. I chased them away, sometimes with shouting, sometimes worse. It’s not easy to admit that now. Back then, I didn’t have compassion in me. My soul was hardened. Life felt meaningless, and animals seemed like a pointless nuisance. Dogs and cats alike, I saw them as distractions or pests.
I don’t say this with pride. In fact, I say it with shame. But I need to say it, because that’s who I was. Then came COVID.
That season wasn’t just a global tragedy, it was personal. During the pandemic, I lost someone precious: my younger brother. He drowned in a river. Gone in an instant. Nothing could’ve prepared me for that pain. It’s the kind of grief that cuts your soul open and exposes every flaw you’ve tried to ignore. His death broke something in me. But oddly enough, in that breaking, something else started to come alive.
It’s hard to explain it in words, but when you lose someone you love especially someone younger than you it changes how you see the world. Suddenly everything matters. Every breath. Every touch. Every tiny life you once ignored. I started noticing things I used to hate or avoid. Trees. Insects. Birds. And yes, cats. It was like my eyes had been opened. Not because I was good but because I was crushed, and in that crushed place, God reached in and softened me.
3-5 years not long after the funeral, I found myself looking at my other brother’s cat. It had been his companion. A small, grey thing with sharp eyes and a surprisingly loud meow. Nobody wanted to care for it. So I took it in.
At first, I did it out of obligation. I didn’t like the cat, but it was his, and I owed him that much. I fed it, cleaned after it, and tried to keep it away from my space. But something started to change. I began to watch it, how it moved, how it slept curled up with its nose in its tail, how it looked at me without judgment. It didn’t know anything about my past or my cruelty. It just existed, quietly, in the same house as me. And in some strange way, that cat became a bridge between the person I was and the person I was becoming.
Two years have passed since then. That same cat now sleeps beside me as I write. I work from home, sitting at my desk trying to earn a living, desperate to make something of myself. But the cat has claimed the desk as his own. He walks across my keyboard, knocks over pens, fights imaginary enemies, and curls up right in front of my monitor when I’m in the middle of something important like playing Call of Duty. Sometimes he meows for no reason at all just to get my attention. Other times he sleeps so peacefully on my desk that I feel guilty moving him. I’ve picked him up and placed him on the floor so many times, only to have him jump right back up five minutes later like nothing happened.
It’s annoying. It’s distracting. It makes me want to scream some days, especially when I’m under pressure or exhausted. But then I look at him. And I remember. I remember whose cat he was. I remember how I used to hate creatures like him. And I remember that love isn’t always tidy or convenient.
Love is messy.
Love sleeps on your desk and interrupts your work. Love sheds hair on your keyboard and jumps on your lap at the wrong time. Love tests your patience. But love is what changed me. And in the end, love is what keeps me going.
I’ve thought about getting a bigger desk. Maybe even a second desk, one for me and one for two of the cats. Because at this point, it’s not just my workstation anymore. It’s our shared space. It’s where my hands work and his paws rest. It’s where grief and healing, frustration and affection, coexist in one small corner of my life.
So, if you’re someone who doesn’t understand why people love animals especially cats, I get it. I was you. But let me say this clearly: don’t abuse animals. Don’t ignore them. Don’t treat them like they’re beneath you. These creatures are part of God’s creation. They breathe, they feel pain, they feel upset, they trust. And sometimes, they’re the very messengers God uses to remind us of grace, healing, and second chances.
I was once cruel. I am now learning to be kind. Not because I deserve redemption, but because I was shown it in a way I never expected through the quiet, persistent love of a cat who refused to stay off my desk.
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