Amy

Amy is my first photo on Instagram. I knew her for more than twelve years, ten of which we didn't get along so well. She was wild, independent, explosive, energetic, and beautiful.

In her old house, she was the leader of a gang. My evidence was the pack of cats that shouted for her to come out in the depths of the night. And how expert she was at violating the house security and escaping.

She would sometimes return injured, dirty, but happy and hungry. With inexhaustible energy and impressive acrobatic ability. Her biological mother had been a fat restaurant cat, and her childhood was full of violence and trauma before being adopted.

One day she returned with a small hole in her ear, the product of some street fight whose story we'll never know. But Amy surely won and, after her victory, decided to retire from the streets.

For almost ten years, our interaction was transactional. I wasn't her father; I just wanted to be with her mother. She wasn't my cat and tolerated my presence. Our common interest in her mother was what united us. If there was love, it was only visible at night, when she would curl up on my legs, seeking warmth.

The day Amy's mom got sick and my world collapsed, Amy was there for me. I remember coming home from the hospital destroyed, anxious about an operation with an uncertain outcome, crying. Amy approached me and without saying anything, for the first time, lay down on my chest.

From that day on, Amy would seek me out to brighten my day, rub against my body, rest on top of me, and demand that I scratch her. Ten years of not letting me touch her changed in an instant.

A few weeks later, the pandemic arrived. And we spent more time together than ever.

Amy was strict in her demand for love. For an exact number of minutes, she demanded affection, caresses, and massages. At the end of those minutes, trying to touch her would result in my hands being destroyed by her fangs and claws.

Over time, we learned to dance. She understood my gesture of "it's time for affection" and came obediently. I understood her gesture of "don't touch me anymore" and withdrew my hands before she attacked them. We had complete understanding of each other's mutual needs.

I called her "Amy Yolanda." She, surely, called me "old son of a bitch."

Amy was seventeen years old and had renal insufficiency, which is another medical way of saying "she's 17 years old." For two years, Amy needed hydrations from a Ringer's lactate bag through a needle in her back that slowly dripped down over 5 minutes, every 48 hours. Amy hated every second, but understood it was good for her.

Every minute of Amy's life was fun.

At 8am she would start shouting, something she never did as a kitten. Between 9am and 10am, she demanded to be petted like kneading bread on the living room carpet. If the day was sunny, she would go to the terrace where she would toast herself. The hotter the better, and the terrace could get VERY hot.

If I went out to the terrace, she would also come out to eat herbs from the garden and, above all, to scratch her back on the hot surface of the terrace. There she also demanded to be kneaded. In my mind, she was a brioche bread.

In the afternoon she would be between the terrace or the living room. Between the bed, the sofa, or our desks. For her, our having Zoom calls was unacceptable. We could work focused, but talking to other people was an absolute offense. As soon as she saw us talking to strangers over the Internet, she would start screaming at the top of her lungs.

We knew it was 6:30pm because she would curl up on the sofa and take a nap. She loved watching TV with us at night. And delivery chicken, bird videos, and imagining how she would dismember them. She did it several times in her youth, with pride.

Not letting her sleep with us was impossible. She was capable, for hours, of meowing and scratching the door with fanatical determination. If she didn't sleep between our legs, nobody slept in that house.

The last two years, we started traveling with her between towns and Airbnbs. The first day was terrible for her—how dare we take her out of her palace? Then, she loved the countryside, exploring a new house, and making herself the owner of that space. Without fail.

If a place was too cold, she would scream at us non-stop. Warm areas made her happy and calm.

At night, when it was just her and me, she always came to me. In the last year, I didn't call her; she knew. She would approach slowly, looking into my eyes. Little by little, she would climb my body. If I was focused, she would leave me alone for a while, until she got tired of waiting. With her front paw, she would start calling for my attention.

"Hey! I'm here. Give me love."

But it wasn't strong or violent, as she always was. It was a gentle touch, like when someone wants to tell you in line that you dropped something. I always understood and would start my routine. Warming her ears, scratching her cheeks, scratching her chin, massaging her neck, caressing her back, waiting for her to bite me, closing my fist, letting her scrape her gums on my knuckles.

We shared food together. We both ate pork rinds, chicken, and yogurt. We both liked dulce de leche and creamy things.

I never wanted a cat; she just arrived. And Amy never needed a man; it just happened. We shared a house, love, and a sofa.

Today, twelve years after meeting her and until the end of my life, I will live with the memory that, between my 20s and 30s, I had a cat. I loved a cat. Her name is Amy.