Stella Luna

I got Stella on my 22nd birthday: February 12th, 2016. She was supposed to be a present from my college boyfriend, but when they told us her total cost ($115), he didn’t have enough money to pay for her. All the other kittens were $90, but because Stella was considered a special breed — she is a lynx point Siamese — she was more expensive. I started to cry and as the woman reviewed my application, she saw it was my birthday. “Don’t worry about it. She’ll be $90. Happy birthday,” she smiled. I bought Stella with the majority of the money in my bank account, and then, she was with me always.

Initially, I didn’t want to choose her—when she was a baby, she was pure white with bright blue eyes. The tips of her paws, ears, and tail were grey. Her name at the shelter was Ava. She was so beautiful I knew that she’d be adopted easily, in fact, it was surprising to me that she was even in a shelter. I thought it would be better to get a black kitten or a senior cat who wouldn’t get adopted so easily.

When I met the other cats, the first hid under a bench and wouldn’t emerge to interact (fair). The other sat on my lap, dug her claws into my thighs, and began vehemently hissing at my ex (also fair). Stella, on the other hand, woke up from a nap to nestle in my arms. She crawled around on my shoulders and played with a string toy. As I came back from visiting another cat, I heard a woman whisper to her partner that she wanted Ava. I decided no fucking way and never looked back.

When Stella was a kitten, I was technically (legally) an adult, but very much a child myself. I wasn’t good at cooking, cleaning, doing laundry, or taking care of myself. I was in a deeply unhealthy relationship and she witnessed the worst parts of it. The apartment we lived in was very small and generally filthy. I had just graduated college and couldn’t find a job as a writer so I was worked part time at a tanning salon, a restaurant, and Chatham to pay the rent. I was lost and stuck and horribly depressed. The only things that made me happy were going to work with my friends at Ds and playing with Stella.

Stella was very smart from the beginning. She could play fetch, which I had never seen a cat do before. In the mornings, she would wake me up by laying on my chest and licking my nose. Sometimes, if I didn’t respond quickly enough, she would hook her tiny claw into my nose and pull. Sometimes, she went into the trash and brought me the previous night’s can of food to tell me that she wanted more. 

One of the strangest and worst parts of the emotional abuse I was suffering, was that my ex liked to say I didn’t really love Stella. I did everything for Stella, and I loved doing it. For her first birthday, I bought her a cat tree that far exceeded what I should have spent. Sure, I have always yelled at her from time to time, but she is a rascal. When the violence and destruction of our relationship finally came to a head, he demanded to keep Stella in the breakup. I was so sad that I just left and went to work. 

At work, I was too nauseous and upset to type. My friend Phoebe picked me up to take me to her house. On the way, she stopped at my apartment to pick up some clothes for me, but shortly thereafter, she came down the rickety steps running. She was holding a plastic bag of my clothes, and baby Stella; he was following after them. I jumped out of the car to grab Stell and then we sped away. His face was crestfallen, and I felt terrible for him in that moment, but Stella looked into my eyes with her signature, “You’re my girl” face, and I knew that we belonged together.

Stella and I lived with Phoebe for six months before finally moving into our own apartment, which truly felt equal parts hers and mine. We decorated it in colors that perfectly matched Stella, grey, pink, blue. Each night, I would get into bed and she would come a few minutes later carrying her little pink jellyfish toy named Glinda. We would play with Glinda for a while before eventually falling asleep together. It was the safest and calmest her life had ever been. As a result, I finally felt like I had grown up enough to take care of her. But in truth, it was far more mutual than that. For the rest of our lives, she would protect me and I would protect her. 

When Joe and I first met, he told me he was allergic to cats, and I knew, devastatingly, that if Stella was a dealbreaker for him, that would have to be a dealbreaker for me. But luckily, that was never the case. He let her lay on his chest and lick his face until he broke out in hives and had full blown asthma attacks. When I went on work trips, he volunteered to watch her for the weekend, sending me pictures of them cuddled up in bed together. When we started spending more time at his house, he would frequently invite Stella over too. But even then, being separated from Stella at all made me feel awful and sick to my stomach. I started to get high blood pressure and lose weight. When Joe bought our house and Stella and I moved in, the high blood pressure magically went away. Once, when it was just the three of us, Joe said, “I love you and Stella more than anything,” and I knew I had found a person eternally deserving of her love. From there, we were a family. 

Stell and her bois

Since then, we have gotten our dog, Sunny (who she likes), and our other cat, Keith (reviews are mixed). Since Keith and Sunny came, she plays a lot more and is healthier and more active. Regardless of how little they understand each other, the three of them always seem aware of and attentive to their siblings. They live in harmony and like to give each other little nose kisses. Both Sunny and Keith seem to acknowledge that Stella is a tiny matriarch and tend to cower when she takes a stance.

She loves to sit outside on our patio and walk around in the grass. Glinda is still here with us and Stell still carries her throughout the house like a comfort blanket. When I work from home, she sits next to me, and when we sit on the couch at night, she sits on my lap. She loves to lick both of us, to our dismay. 

The truth of Stell is that she is adorable, soft, and very snuggly. She loves to play and sit next to you or on your lap. But she is also mean. She will hiss, bite, and smack you with no remorse. She has a knack for rubbing against you and headbutting her face against yours; though this body language is challenging to parse, it does not mean you should pet her. In her entire life, besides me, I would say the only people she has grown to fully accept and trust are Joe and our mothers. But that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t hit us. In tribute to her “vibe,” I got a cartoon version of her beautiful face tattooed on my arm. She has her perfect pink nose, stunning blue eyes, and a bloody knife clutched in her jaw.

Stella is about to turn nine, which, honestly, could mean different things in cat years. She spent the entirety of my twenties with me, doing her funny squeak meow, biting me for no reason, and clawing at nice and expensive furniture. Now, I am 30 and she is nearly 63. As she ages, she has acquired some arthritis in her shoulder. She has bad teeth — “It’s just her breed,” says the vet — and occasionally needs to get some of them cleaned or removed. She has never been a good jumper; Joe cites her tiny, crooked tail, and I tend to agree. But her failure to jump high or well doesn’t stop her from jumping. I can’t imagine a world where Stella doesn’t live forever, and I don’t like to, but in the aftermath of losing a person you love, there comes a small, still reminder, this too will end. Often, I rail against that idea. In my experience, death is more complicated than just a cold, sterile ending.

Stella loved my mom the way she loves me. When Stella stayed with my parents, she would sit on my mom’s shoulder, demand to sleep with her, and follow her around squeaking, hissing, and rubbing against her legs happily. During my mom’s in-home hospice care, Stella spent each day diligently patrolling beneath her bed. Lori called it, “mother henning.” When I’m sad, she comes from wherever she is in the house to sit next to me or lick my face. Sometimes, when the indoor wind chime rings (a sign that my mom is visiting us), Stella and I will make direct eye contact and then look around the room curiously. I’m often convinced that she can see much more of my mom’s presence than I can.

Sometimes, on a random, sunny afternoon, I look at Stella sleeping next to me and feel the depth of my love for her. She is so small and so filled with unconditional love and loyalty. She taught me how to take care of myself by demanding that I learn to take care of her. She wanted more than the bare minimum from life, so I figured out how to do better for the both of us. If I were to set my hand on her now, she would look up, trill, and start purring. She’ll never be able to read this, but she’ll know how loved she is every day, for the rest of her life and mine.