I’ve always grown up being rescued by cats. I stood at the glass window and studied the cat for a moment. She was sleeping. I always found a sleeping cat so soothing. I’d watch the rise and fall of their belly. I’d nuzzle close to hear their heartbeat. It was so much faster than mine. I’d try to match their breath but even the way we breathed was completely different. I’d watch them twitch wondering if they dreamt and what they dreamt about.

I was taught that cats were just an animal. They were completely different to humans, who had freewill and feelings and had far more intelligence than animals ever could. Since then science has of course corrected many of these beliefs, but it would be my experiences that would teach me that animals were much more than how humans tried to define them.

So much more.

I met my first cat when I was about 5 or 6. She insisted I pick her up with incessant mews and paws that desperately reached out to me. I fell absolutely in love with her. She had extra long whiskers and so the little kitten was aptly named Whiskers. But my young tongue could not wrapped itself around the letter R yet and very quickly Whiskers turned to a Whiskey. We had many adventures together, majority of them told in He Was A Boy Who Smiled, including the numerous times she saved me.

Whiskey was my hero. Not only would she comfort me after a turmoil of a night where my biological father was raging or try and heal my multiple bruises, but she would literally leap to my rescue.

It’d be a long time in-between before I could even consider getting a new cat. Her name was Tigra, named after a Thundercats character in mind. I’ll admit I bought her during a depressive episode. I needed companionship. The loneliness was killing me and again, she picked me. I’d show up at the pet story and she’d run to the glass window and meow like crazy. The shopkeeper would comment on it. Tigra was a compulsive purchase, but for weeks to come, she refused to leave my side as I spent hours on the couch crying for no reason as I binged Star Trek series. She saved my life. I wish I could have saved hers, but cancer is an unforgiving disease.

So when I discovered a pet store that only sold rescue animals, my husband and I decided it was time to give back. I wanted to rescue a cat and that’s when I found myself staring through another glass window at a cat quietly sleeping. She looked so regal and when she did wake up, she sat with such pose, I turned to my husband and said, “She’s like a queen. A Goddess.”

“Oh great, that makes two of you,” he replied back with a mischievous grin.

We didn’t get her straight away. There were complications with the pet store. In fact, we almost didn’t get her at all. They kept saying they couldn’t take down names but we’d find out they did anyway and gave away a few other kittens we had our eyes set on. But I know now it’s because it wasn’t meant to be. We weren’t meant to rescue them. We were meant to rescue–

On the label they had named her Dottie. I cringed and looked her straight in the eyes. There was a green hew around her pupil before it expanded into the glassy marble that made up the rest of her eyes. “Bastet,” I whispered and my husband nodded, “Perfect.”

Bastet. Egyptian Goddess of Cats. She was born into a home that mistreated her. Decided withholding food was a perfect game. She hoarded it now. Ate a little bit of what she was given to make it last. Unaware that she was in a place she didn’t have to anymore. The way that she flinched, we knew she wasn’t used to affection, though she was a huge cuddle-bug when she wouldn’t snap into defensive mode and attack to keep the hands away…from hurting her. She had been rescued before but like so many cases, new homes only mean new abandonment. Bastet didn’t have consistency and with my own PTSD and dealing with trauma, my husband and I knew she was perfect for us.

It’s hard. I won’t lie. Completely worth it. And there are days when she lashes out at us suddenly that I worry she doesn’t love us. That we don’t make it clear it is safe, but I have such an understanding and awareness of my own PTSD to know that in those moments, it’s best to leave her alone. She always comes back. Meowing. Purring. Reaching up to me with those paws of hers. Much like Whiskey. To climb into my arms and rub her head into my beard. It only gives my husband even more reason to wish he could grow one.

It’s hard. Difficult. Hurtful when she tears away and things that are sentimental, things I had thought were safe and put away. But like most cats, she’s clever. A perfect thief. A ninja. She still hoards her food from time to time. I’ll slip into my own PTSD and anxiety. Worried that I don’t do well enough for what she deserves.

But I know she loves us. Her separation anxiety proves it. She lashes out because that’s how she’s learnt to express herself. To protect herself from the strong emotions. It doesn’t mean she hates us. Or fears us. She just sees her abusers. She fears she’s back in those places. She’s scared my husband and I will disappear and not return. She’s worried the food will run out. She flinches and I join her. Remembering what it felt like to hit. Beaten. Starved. Tortured. Abused. And we’ll spiral. We’ll go back to those times.

But both of us are lucky to have a patient and kind person in our lives. My husband. And I know Bastet is lucky to have us. And we are lucky to have her. After all, we are survivors. We appreciate what we have even after it’s gone. But this time it’s different. We don’t have to survive alone.

We’re being rescued.