A Feral Kitten, a Broken Heart, and the Unexpected Way We Saved Each Other

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On a Saturday in April 2025, my family and I were trawling through a thrift store when I heard the most heartbreaking, pathetic little squeak. After much convincing, the store owner opened the back door, and I went looking for the source of the sound.

A little shadow dashed under some trash, and I followed.I pulled out a dirty, emaciated, hissing ball of black fluff with the meanest bite and claws to match.

Holding this tiny little soul in my now slashed and bleeding hands, I looked to my husband, who responded with one simple word: “No.”

I agreed. It wasn’t the right time for more responsibility or another mouth to feed. We dropped the little thing off at the vet to get cleaned up and, hopefully, adopted.That evening I phoned the vet to check in. The following day, again—twice.

By Tuesday afternoon, after at least seventy-three phone calls to the vet to “check in,” my husband told me to just bring it home.We still didn’t know if it was a little boy or girl, or how much medical attention it needed. It didn’t matter.My heart was with that little beast, and I needed it with me.

The vet said that despite his rough start to life and his obvious lack of consistent meals, my little boy was in good shape—fierce as ever—and ready to come home, as long as I was sure I wanted to commit to something that might never be affectionate.

I was sure.This cat was my soulmate. I just didn’t know he’d save my life quite so soon after bringing him home.

Three days later, my dad died.

The next two weeks were a blur of tears, sleep, and throwing up.I couldn’t waste away in my bed like I wanted to, because I needed to get up and feed the cat and clean his litter box.

And you know that unaffectionate, feral kitten? He crawled into my lap every time my head was in the toilet, curled up under my chin every time I was lying in bed, and licked my face every time I cried.

When my husband didn’t know how to comfort me, he’d hand me the cat, kiss me on the forehead, and leave the room.It was enough.It was exactly what I needed.

Slowly, I managed to pick myself up and carry on—plan a memorial instead of a birthday party, get back to real life, work, friends, family. All with this little kitten underfoot or cuddled up close.

We were each other’s safe space. Each other’s strength. I needed to keep showing up for him, and he knew exactly when I needed him—he still does.

I don’t think I would have survived my loss without my Ozzy, the fierce little kitten who found me at exactly the right time.

Nicole Edwards