I don't believe in angels - not the biblical, guardian sort with wings and harps. Rather, I'd prefer to interpret an "angel" as a healing presence, physical or not, an indication that
if there is a power bigger than ourselves, it somehow manifests itself into something tangible.
This is the story of how Misha, my cat, my little black angel, came into my life.
I'd been struggling with some stressful life events, the end of a relationship and loneliness. I'm lucky enough to have a terrific support system of friends and family, but even so, sometimes it's tough to be single and living alone.
My birthday is in late October, about a week before Halloween. That year, (just over 11 years ago), a couple days before, one of my friends stopped by my apartment to pick me up for an early celebratory dinner out. As we walked out the front lobby door to her car parked on the street, a black cat seemed to materialize out of nowhere and made a beeline straight for me. In a neighborhood, on a busy street, where household pets are seldom seen wandering - a desperate, mangy, emaciated, pathetically-crying long-haired black cat. He wrapped himself around my ankles and I reached down to pet him. All I could feel was bones covered in fur. "This cat is nearly starved to death." We had a dinner reservation to keep, I was not supposed to keep pets in my apartment, my friend wanted to leave. We left him there on there on the sidewalk in front of the building, even though he kept trying to follow me, even into her car.
I couldn't stop thinking about leaving him like that. He was starving, he could get hit by a car, it was cold. When I got home later that night, I tried looking for him, but he was gone.
The following night, I was sitting in my kitchen, talking on the phone with my aunt, who happens to be a cat-lover like me. Now, a bit of background information here: my apartment at the time was a third-floor walk-up in a 100-year-old building with an enormous wood porch on the back that went down to basement level. Altogether there were more than twenty apartments. My kitchen's back door opened to that porch.
The conversation came around and I found myself telling my aunt about the cat, and how bad I felt for leaving him.
As I was telling her about him, I heard "meowing" at my back door. "There's a cat at my door!" Unusual, as I was in a third-floor apartment. I opened the door, and there he was...he walked in and made himself at home. Sniffed around, tail up, and hopped up to curl up on my bed, as if he belonged there.
Apparently, I had little choice in the matter,
he had chosen
me to be his person. And that was that. I'm also his
only person. It quickly became apparent this cat had been badly abused. Physically he was in appalling condition. His paws were abraded and bloody, there was no fur left on his belly, he was fur-covered bones. He would not have lived much longer.
Much worse and much sadder was his reaction to humans. He was, and is, ok with me, for the most part. Even I had to earn his trust. It took him over a year before he would even sit on my lap. At first, however, he was absolutely panic-striken at the sight of an older woman. He would go into what I call "scary Halloween cat" mode, hissing, back up, growling. He is not a mean cat, just frightened. There's been improvement with time, but strangers still unsettle him. He usually disappears upstairs in my house and goes to his "nest" there, or under the bed.
I named him "Misha" after Mikhail Barishnikov (whose nickname it is). When healthy, he is a good-sized, elegant, long-haired black cat with beautiful green eyes and I had discovered that he loved to run and leap in great, graceful bounds when playing around! Inspiration for his name came from watching a ballet program on TV.
About a year after he came into my life, I was critically injured in a traumatic car accident. I was incapacitated, extremely ill and spent months recuperating at home. Misha practically glued himself to my side, curled up next to me, or on the back of the sofa, always where he could see me. He still sleeps next to me, purring quietly. When I'm home, he's nearly always in the same room. I get the feeling that he's "guarding" me and find it somewhat comforting.
We've had some personality and behavior issues to work through over the years, Misha and I. In many ways, I relate to him on a personal level, dealing with the outfall of abuse. Injured hearts and spirits do not heal completely; the scars can last a lifetime. We can be given a reprieve, surrounded by love and kindness and stability. Pets can help that healing process. He's given me the responsibility of making sure he will never experience abuse or neglect again; in return, I am the recipient of the special unconditional "love" and comfort that Misha brings to me.
