It was love at first sight. Our eyes met from across an abandoned lot in North
Philadelphia. And when I say our eyes, I mean two of mine and one of hers. She waddled over to me. She was a mangy mess with one eye crusted shut with an infection. She had an open wound on her back paw and mites in her ears, but we both knew what was about to happen. I crouched down to pet her (I’m a generally filthy person anyway) and she used my hand as a scratching post. I began to walk back to my apartment and she decided that she was coming home with me. I brought her to our backyard and gave her some food. When I went back out after a few hours,
she was gone.
I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about her. She’d come to me at a time that I was dealing with grief and pain and her spirit felt comforting. Her outside could use some improvement, but I’d never met a cat so friendly. Then, a week later, her matted little face popped up in my window and she winked at me.
I took her to the vet and spent a ridiculous amount of money to get her on the path to wellness. It took months. There was a mystery case of mange involved and my roommates were not pleased. The trash cat, as we have lovingly coined her, is a joyous little bundle of fur who loves every minute of being a fat indoor cat. She’s the ultimate gal pal and my camera roll is filled with her. She brings me happiness every single day.
Harvey (her real name...I may have thought she was a boy for a few weeks) loves to sleep on plastic bags. She’s very studious and believes that there is some kind of creator but she’s wary about the idea of God. Her hobbies include: shutting my computer off when I’m watching Project Runway, biting my toes when I’m doing leg lifts, harassing her elderly sister cat, and doing a call and response meow with my boyfriend every morning. She’s available for talk show appearances, just contact her agent.