How a stray made all the difference

The day I met Penny my life was pretty much falling apart.

My husband had just told me he wanted to leave. We were in the middle of a remodel, and our house literally was falling apart. I had a job at a costume store in a city south of Los Angeles. But I felt farther than ever from my dream of being a Hollywood costume designer.

How was I even going to make my house payment?

Penny was a kitten. Weeks old, a scrawny, filthy ball of black fur with runny eyes and a runny nose, she turned up one day in the backyard. I picked her up and, though she looked near death, she immediately purred with pleasure.

I already had one rescue cat named Annie. And I had a pretty good idea where Penny had come from. But I knew if I took her back there—a neighbor’s yard overrun with feral cats—she’d die. I took her inside.

I made her a bed of towels and set out a little tuna and water. I came home at lunch to check on her and found Annie eyeing me suspiciously. Annie was a street cat, and in the four years she’d lived with me she’d gotten about as far as tolerating my presence.

She let me hold her—sometimes. Mostly she was outside, ignoring me. I’d never heard her purr. Now she glowered at Penny. Penny, however, was as chipper as ever. She hadn’t eaten anything since I’d found her, but she nuzzled me anyway.

I took her to the vet and got antibiotics for her eyes and nose and vitamins to help her grow. Her respiratory infection had been so bad she’d been unable to eat. A few days later she began wolfing down food and venturing around the house. Annie pretty much disappeared.

If I’d thought about it I would have felt stupid taking on another stray cat. Life only got worse after Penny’s arrival. My husband and I started our divorce, and any hopes I’d had for an amicable process were dashed. I’d have to get a lawyer—which I couldn’t afford. I couldn’t afford to finish the remodel, either.

My husband and I had been sharing the work and there it sat, gaping holes that looked like I felt. Days I didn’t work I lay in bed, thinking of everything I was too depressed to take on—the lawn, the house, looking for that job I so wanted. What was the point of getting up?

Actually, Penny was the point. The minute she had strength she began tearing around the house. Most mornings it was her nuzzling head or playful paw waking me up. Or an alarming crash as she nosed her way into yet another accident.

I’d leap up and there she’d be in the midst of a mess, looking at me like, “Isn’t this fun?”

When I cooked she jumped onto the counter to help. Once I went to close the dishwasher and she was in it. Another time I accidentally locked her in the closet. I came home for lunch and found her happier than ever. Nothing fazed her. Not even Annie, who went from ignoring her to grimly tolerating her.

I fell farther behind on my mortgage and had no choice but to sell the house. I cried when my cousin Marni offered to move from Seattle to help me fix it up.

She arrived with her two miniature dogs, Tinker and Tula. Annie, of course, was horrified. Penny was delighted. She bonded especially with Tula, who was just as goofy. The two of them tore around the house, tumbling and crashing into furniture.

She began following the dogs outside. I was a little nervous letting her out since she had basically zero judgment. But I couldn’t keep her in. She’d lurk by the door, tail twitching. The instant it opened she’d dash out, stopping at once to inspect a flower or creep after some bug. Sometimes she’d emerge from under the house, face smeared with cobwebs.

Slowly Marni and I put the house back together. We floored the bedrooms, patched the walls and mowed the lawn. “Where will you move when you sell?” Marni asked.

“I have no idea,” I said glumly.

“Duh,” said Marni. “You need to get closer to LA. You’ll never land a studio job until you meet the right people.” I hadn’t thought of it that way. It sounded kind of like what Penny might say. Her attitude toward everything seemed to be, Why not? Yeah, why not? I wondered.

One evening, just shy of Penny’s one-year anniversary with me, Marni and I went out to move cars in the driveway—mine was blocking hers and she had to get up early to run an errand. Penny, as usual, was nowhere to be found, most likely outside exploring the twilight with Tula.

We switched the cars, and I was just walking back inside when I happened to glance up the block. In the distance I saw what looked like a tiny ball of fur lying in the middle of the street. I jogged over.

The closer I got the clearer it became. I slowed. Stopped. I couldn’t take the last few steps. I raced back toward the house, crying hysterically for Marni.

Marni rushed out and I pointed up the street. Ashen, she walked to Penny’s unmoving body and picked her up. We knelt in the driveway and I cried and cried. There was nothing showing where she’d been hit. But she was no longer alive. I had no idea how long she’d lain there.

We dragged ourselves inside and placed Penny in my cat carrier. The other animals sensed something was wrong. Tinker approached and sniffed in alarm. Tula whined and barked as if to say, “Let her out of there!”

Even Annie appeared, padding softly to the side of the carrier where she sat in somber silence. I kept the carrier in my room and cried myself to sleep, unable to accept Penny was gone. Just as I drifted off I felt someone else in bed with me. It was Annie, nuzzling near my head where Penny always lay. All through that night Annie twitched and mewed as if having bad dreams. I knew just how she felt.

We cremated Penny and I placed her ashes in the living room. I made a photo album of her and couldn’t help laughing at almost every picture. There she was, immersed in my costume lace collection. Peeking out from my clothes. She’d never gotten big. Always a scrawny, ungainly kitten, the opposite of feline grace. Don’t take life so seriously, she seemed to say. You don’t need to be perfect to be happy.

One day I came home from work to find Marni looking at her digital camera. “You won’t believe this,” she said, showing me a picture of Annie sprawled on her bed with Tinker and Tula. My eyes widened. Annie had studiously ignored them from the moment they arrived. It was Penny who’d played with them.

That night Annie again slept beside my head. I awoke the next morning to a strange sound: Annie purring! I stroked her. She moved closer, purring even louder.

She lay like that a long time, longer than she’d ever let me pet her before. In the evening I came home to find Annie playing with some of Penny’s toys, something she’d also never done. After dinner she sauntered in and leaped into Marni’s lap. Marni practically yelped in surprise. Annie hated Marni! Or at least—she had.

The change in Annie continued. My ornery old cat seemed to become more loving by the day. Once, not long before we moved to Sherman Oaks right near the movie studios, I saw her emerge from under the house, her face smeared with cobwebs.

I worried she’d react badly to the move. But I should have known. She took it right in stride—sort of like Penny. In fact, as we got our new place set up I realized all of us were acting more like Penny.

It didn’t take me long to meet people in the movie industry. I even found a few good leads on costuming jobs. Sometimes, taking walks in our treesy neighborhood, I think how much Penny would have loved it here. Then I catch myself.

She does love it here. My little fur-ball angel is still with us. If Annie could talk I’m sure she’d tell you so.