The Wild and Absolutely True Adventures of Meg: Thirteen Years

Wednesday, December 12, 2012

Thirteen Years

Just now, I glanced to my right. On the edge of the mattress, never far away from me, is the curled-up body of a petite torbie named Millennium Joy. She's happily napping, her nose tucked into her tail. She is warm, safe, and content...living the good life.

Thirteen years ago today, my parents drove up to Chico to visit me for a day. At the time, it didn't occur to me that this visit was out of the ordinary, but in retrospect it was. Most of their visits to Chico revolved around my musical performances (and there were many of those), and for Mom and Dad to randomly drive up to "take me to lunch" on a Saturday before Finals Week--especially seeing as how I'd be home in a week's time for Christmas--was not normal. But that didn't enter my mind. I was just excited to get a free lunch.

This was back before cell phones were as widely-used as they are now, so the deal was that Mom and Dad would call just before they left Folsom, letting me know they were on their way, so I could expect them in about two hours. So that Saturday, I was sitting on my sofa, watching out the front window of my tiny apartment for their van to pull in to the apartment complex.

When they arrived, I immediately knew something was up. I could see a cat carrier in the back seat--definitely not normal. I stepped out my front door as Dad got out of the driver's seat. He looked up at me, grinned and said, "Come on down, there's someone we want you to meet."

Never in a million years did I expect my parents to surprise me with a kitten that day. I had been living on my own for the first time ever--a small one-bedroom apartment--for about four months, and I loved having my own space, no roommates to trip over, no messes left by others to deal with. Sure, it got a little quiet sometimes, perhaps a little lonely, but after a few years of having one difficult roommate after another, I needed some time to live by myself. I wanted my own cat desperately, but they weren't allowed in my apartment complex, and I figured I couldn't afford one, anyway.

The rest is history. I skipped down the stairs and as I approached the car, Mom opened the back door to show me a small torbie in a cat carrier. She was meowing loudly and sticking a whole front leg through the wire door.

"The ladies at the shelter called her Punky Brewster," Mom said with a smile. "But you can call her whatever you like."

And so this feisty little ball of energy was christened Millennium--Millie for short. 1999 was coming to a close and the Y2K "crisis" was all over the news. Though the real start to the new millennium would be a year later, I loved the name. A few days later, I added Joy as a middle name, because she made me happy, and it was Christmas time.

The first week was rough--I had finals to study for, and a very energetic kitten keeping me awake at night. I remember one memorable moment, at about three in the morning, sitting in the living room with my wayward kitten on my lap, struggling to free herself for more playtime.

"That's it," I told her. "I can't live like this. I'm going to have to give you back." I promptly burst into tears at the thought--the truth is, she had me wrapped around her dainty white paw from that very first afternoon. There was no giving her back; Millie was here to stay.

And she has stayed. She forgave me for the year in England, and I've nursed her through pancreatitis. She brings huge comfort to me in the wake of losing Harley, and makes no secret that she adores me. The feeling is entirely mutual. She is one special cat.