Turtle wasn’t supposed to be a permanent family member. Gabe and I agreed to become cat foster parents for a local shelter, seduced by visions of a revolving-door household full of adorable cameo kittens; I recognize this only in retrospect as the apex of mid-twenties naiveté. She was the first cat they dropped off, a silent, spooked-looking three-year-old (they estimated) who barely let us look her over before she burrowed under my blanket and stayed there motionless for two and a half days. She had been abandoned, found starving and practically feral, had had to eat her own kittens to survive. This seemed like too much information to put on an adoption website, but what do I know. The shelter didn’t contact us again for five months, and by the time they told us someone might be interested in adopting Turtle we were horrified by the thought of letting her go. We invoked squatters’ rights and adopted her ourselves. I assume this was what the shelter intended all along.
She was a serious cat. I don't think she ever quite figured out what play was. She was disdainful of pet toys and suspicious of people, and even when she did something silly, like chase her tail in circles until she spun herself off the bed, she would immediately get up and pad away as composed as could be. When she was annoyed she hissed. When she was nervous she hid. She hid a lot. But something clicked once she decided to trust you, and from then on she was generous, even imperious, with her affection. If you weren’t petting her she wanted to know why. (She was particularly competitive for attention with computers, and we learned soon enough to save changes when she came sniffing around: the keyboard shortcuts she found with her feet were obscure and irreversible.) Given her way, she would sit purring on top of you for hours, and if your hand left her she would meow—which was really more of a cranky bleat—and scoop her cold little nose under it to guide it back into place.
We had about seven and a half years together, in four different apartments, most of which we shared with other cats too: Asha, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, Watson, and for one harrowing week Raleigh and Echo. She was sort of a bitch to all of them, but her heart wasn’t in it. She just wanted to be where she was, to have a home, to be doted on or left alone.
She left about as quickly and unceremoniously as she showed up. She went to the vet with breathing problems one Monday afternoon in late September and was gone, with no explanation, by Tuesday morning. It was all too short, too fast. But above all it was good. If you knew her I’m glad you did and if you didn’t I wish you had. She was a remarkable cat, the same a way a person can be a remarkable person. We gave each other happier lives.