Animals are incredible. Not only can they offer warmth and comfort, they are just the darndest things. They have their own little quirks and personalities. They give unconditional love. I never used to understand my friends who had animals– the undeniable connection they had with their furry friends. But it wasn’t until I got my own kitten, that I learned what unconditional love was.
I got Camille in early October, shortly before my diagnosis of Lyme Disease. I had no idea what an important part of my life she would become, but I often wonder how I would have managed without her, during my darkest days. I’d gotten the idea to foster a kitten several years prior, had put myself on the foster email list, and routinely received emails on available kittens. I thought I only liked kittens — not adult cats. But maybe, just maybe, if I had a kitten from the beginning and raised her from scratch, I would fall in love with her as she grew up into an adult cat, too. I pictured myself with a little grey kitten, and I had the idea that I would name her Camille.
I remember the day I went to Paws’ Medical Center with my best friend, Hilary, for my foster assignment. I’d left early that morning from my boyfriend’s swanky Old Town apartment in Chicago, after having just had a bizarre fight the night before and riding the ferris wheel at Navy Pier for the last time before they tore it down. It was marketed as “The Last Ride” and Navy Pier gave away commemorative tickets and t-shirts. We’d waited in line for hours and rode slightly around midnight for free and were part of the group to receive the free t-shirts. It was the last ride on the ferris wheel, but it was also, metaphorically, our last ride, as well. We only lasted a few more weeks after that, and I think I knew at the time, instinctively, that right then was the time to adopt. I knew, subconsciously, even before I fostered, that I might be alone in the upcoming months, and perhaps, I’d need my furry friend right now.
Hilary and I could barely contain our excitement. I didn’t know who they would give me. I filled out a questionnaire the gave me. I checked the boxes that said I wanted one cat, I had a pet free home, and I gave my availability. The foster coordinator looked over my form and told me she knew which cat would be a good fit for me. And then she brought out a tiny little wisp of a kitten, a puff of black and white, a little face that was scared and inquisitive. Six weeks old and a pound and a half, LaCroix was my foster kitty. We coooed and melted as they brought her out. I think I held her? It’s hard to remember. She was tiny and scared and slunk to the back of her carrier. They explained the medications she was was on and how I was to give her eye drops twice a day and then feed her a syringe full of doxycycline.
LaCroix and I were taking the same medication. She was clearing up some type of street kitty infection. I was trying to kill Lyme bacteria. We were both on Doxy.
It was fate.
But the name would have to go. LaCroix? I didn’t feel comfortable calling my kitty by the name of popular beverage or French city. Should I name her Doxy? A cute homage to our bonding antibiotic? No… that seemed too grounded in illness and I wanted to be free of dis-ease. I decided to test out the name Camille on her. Or Cami for short. She would be my little French street kitty. Authorities had found Camille on her own and brought her in as part of the city’s Trap-Neuter-Return program, where volunteers and workers bring in feral felines so the cats can be spayed and neutered and then released back into the city. But sometimes, employees would come across cats they thought were adoptable, and Camille was one of those cats. They recognized a scrappy little personality and fighter in her, and they decided to keep her for a foster parent to get her ready for adoption. I thank my stars everyday they decided to take a chance on Camille. I thank my lucky stars I decided to take a chance on Camille.
And I thank my lucky stars that Camille decided to take a chance on me.
She changed my life.
In the days after my diagnosis and subsequent breakup I had very little to hold me together. Camille became my reason why. I had to take care of her. I had to give her medicine. I had to try to socialize her. And oh, did she need socialization. She hid from me. Cowered at the door. Ran away from me. Wouldn’t let me touch her. Spent all day hiding under the bed, paralyzed in fear, when she got out from the little sun room I’d been keeping her in. It was useless, I thought. She’ll never love me. What was the point in keeping a kitten who hated me? I had wanted to foster because I didn’t know if I would like owning a cat. I thought fostering would be a great opportunity to see if it was for me. And at the beginning, I was starting to think being a cat owner was not in the cards. I was only supposed to keep Camille on a two-week assignment while she healed and gained enough weight for her spay surgery. But every follow up visit to the medical center, she was still a bit sick and needed more time. My kitty, therefore, needed more time in my home and with me. And the longer she was with me, the more she opened up and trusted.
One morning, I woke up, and Camille had jumped up onto my bed. She was walking around my pillow and started to nuzzle my hand. She was about two pounds and a bit over two months old. And I remember thinking, “Ohhhhhhhhh. You are mine. I’m keeping you.” My icy icy cold heart melted that day, as I realized Camille was my baby kitten and a piece of my healing. From that moment forward, we were inseparable. As my illness ravaged on and I could barely get out of bed, as the days wore on and moving from the couch to the bathroom was like asking me to climb Mount Everest, every cuddle, every nuzzle, every playtime, every nap on my chest was my medicine. It was what kept me going during those dark days of isolation. My friends were sparse and not sure how to help me during this time, I created distance because I didn’t know what else to do, and I isolated partly on purpose and partially by accident, but it was Camille who kept me from being alone. She saved me from madness, from fear, from misery. Though the darkness was severe, Camille kept me from unravelling and she gave me love and joy. I do not know how I would have managed this time without her. I do not know how I would have managed the next three years without her.
I adopted Camille about two months from the day I first met her.
They call us “Foster Failures” — those of us who end up adopting our foster pets. Foster pets are meant to be given back so they can be adopted by another family. They lovingly call us “Foster Failures” because we have fallen in love with our fosters and decided to keep them, ourselves.
Camille has been there during every setback, every scary moment, every heartache, and so much loss. She has kept me sane and showed me such unconditional love. She does not care if I am a mess, if I am crying, if I have taken steps backwards. She depends on me for food, playtime, cuddles, and she has a quirky personality that perhaps some might call weird, but I just call “Camille.” She sits when told to, comes running when I’m brushing my hair so I can brush hers, and she plays fetch with certain toys. She jumps as high as Michael Jordan when playing with her feather toy, and she wakes “Mom” (me) up at such stupid hours of the morning that I need to keep a spray bottle by my bed so I can keep her in line (vet approved behavioral training, of course!). All I need to do is pick up the bottle now and she stops her shenanigans.
I highly recommend the therapeutic love of an animal. If you are going through a hard time, the beginning of a diagnosis, or even if you are just living on your own and finding it difficult to deal with the hardships life can throw at you, I can’t think of anything better than the love of an animal. It was all the difference in the world for me.
They say that we save our animals when we adopt them. But Camille saved me just as much as I saved her.
We saved each other.
