From disowned and pregnant to pampered princess

I was 27, stupid, and lonely.

I had undiagnosed borderline personality disorder. I would lay on my living room floor and cry like a baby over the tiniest reasons.

To add insult to injury, my undiagnosed anxiety and depression made every little creak that I heard in my apartment worse.

I couldn't live like this.

I needed a cat. One that would cuddle with me, comfort me, and let me bounce advice off of her.

I obsessively checked the nearest humane society websites and settled on a majestic, cream-colored cat. I surveyed my living room for name ideas, when my eyes landed on a vanilla-hued candle from Bath and Body Works that read "ITALY."

"That shall be her name," I declared to no one in particular.

As days passed by, and I waited for my next paycheck to hit my bank account, "Italy" was no longer available. I could have cried. But I didn't. I knew there were other kitties that needed rescuing at the shelter.

That's when I stumbled upon a black-and-blonde cat named Wynona at the Milwaukee Area Domestic Animal Control Center (MADACC). She was tiny, had lime green eyes, and laid on her side in her picture in a rebellious "make me pose, try me" kind of way. I liked her. I immediately imagined her in my lap, purring my problems away. She'd solve mine, and I'd solve hers.

That's when I learned that MADACC was a kill shelter. And they were giving away cats in the summertime for free because there were so many mating that the shelters would just have to sacrifice them.

I hopped in my car with $5 left on a Discover credit card (a telltale sign of BPD) no cash, and a hope that I would meet the right cat.

My asthma tightened my chest as I entered the shelter filled with meowing and howling cats and dogs. I could barely hear myself ask the volunteer lady to see Wynona. A rush of anxious adrenaline surged through my body.

This was just another one of those stupid, impulsive things I was doing. Wasn't it?

We walked over to a kitty condo, where cats were joyfully playing, or splayed out in a comfortable manner. Wynona, on the other hand, was loafed in a mailbox-sized space on a blanket. She looked at the volunteer in disgust as she was asked to "come here."

Like she would ever just do that because someone asked her to.

The volunteer lady shortly resorted to dragging her out by her plush blanket. Wynona slid against her will just barely into the older woman's arms, and we made our way to a private, quiet room with nothing but long banquet tables and chairs.

She put down a towel for Wynona, like that was supposed to provide her with some sort of comfort or something. I sat in front of her, scared of what she'd think of me and wondering if this cat is too grumpy after all, and I'd have to refine my search for the perfect Italy.

That's when I felt a head butt up against my chest as soon as Wynona made her way toward me. But back then, I didn't speak Cat.

The volunteer gasped in awe.

Apparently, it meant that we were best friends. Already.

"She likes you," she stared in amazement.

This lady was on something. Cats barely ever liked me.

Wynona slinked across the tables, proudly displaying her hunter heritage, and dilly-dallied in the corner of the room. We discussed taking her home.

"I was going to wait until Wednesday to take her, so that way I could afford more toys and a cat tree after I get my paycheck," I dished.

The volunteer almost looked like she had puppy eyes.

"I would take her today," she said quietly.

I knew what she meant.

She didn't have to say another word.

Wynona had been in the shelter for a couple of months already.

Her time was coming.

"Okay," I agreed, spontaneously, as I always do. It usually got me into trouble.

I signed paperwork, changed her name to Italy, and purchased a $5 cardboard carrier with my Discover credit card. The shelter gave me enough cat food and a litter box to suffice for the next couple of days before my paycheck arrived.

Italy cried on the way home. I sang to her. She stopped. I couldn't tell if she was judging me, or if she actually liked it. I started to panic. How was I going to take care of a cat if I didn't even have money to get her anything? How was I supposed to take care of something other than myself?

But the way that the volunteer looked at me and gave her cryptic advice, I knew that I was making the right choice. That day, I was certain that I had saved Italy's life.

Italy stood short at a scrawny 5 pounds. She immediately hopped out of her box upon arrival and dashed under my bed.

I read through her papers after bothering her to get up off of the floor.

Again, I didn't speak Cat. But now that I do, I would have never bothered her.

She may have had fleas, worms, an infection, or a disease, but she leapt upon my bed and settled down in a loaf position on my favorite pillow.

I winced as my anxiety skyrocketed. I took a deep breath.

"Hero," I repeated to myself. "You saved a cat."

As I paged through Italy's records, I found heartbreaking news.

She was found outside and had apparently previously belonged to someone who didn't want her anymore.

She was pregnant upon arrival to MADACC.

She birthed her kittens, but she was too sick with an upper respiratory infection to nurse them.

One by one, each kitten died.

Not only had this skin-and-bones tortoiseshell cat been barely surviving around the neighborhoods and alleys of Milwaukee's State Fair Park, but she was raped by another cat. There was no way it was consensual. She was sick, scrounging for food, and homeless.

She went through the agony of childbirth, and then she watched her own offspring die before her eyes.

Her body had failed her, and I'd wondered why she was a loner in her cat condo in the shelter.

I began to tear up. Italy and I had a lot in common. We'd lived through tough situations. We were both held down against our will. We were both lost. We were both left with nothing.

But we both had a lot of potential.

And we both preferred the same pillow.

As you can imagine, Italy slowly opened up. She slept happily sprawled out on the couch against a cushion, like she'd never experienced an ounce of comfort before. But she wouldn't get close for long. She would run and become a recluse on top of the refrigerator, or, dangerously, on top of the water heater in the closet if there was a loud noise.

But even though I had brought home a scaredy cat, I put so much of my attention on training her and loving her that I completely forgot that I lived alone.

I didn't hear the noises from neighbors, and I could actually sleep in my apartment at night.

As our relationship progressed, eventually, she found it appropriate to sit on the opposite end of the couch from me.

And, weeks later, she'd move a little closer.

And, a month later, she'd stretch-crawl upon my belly and then my chest and test out the waters of cuddling.

Italy was finally opening up to me, and it was the best thing ever. The only problem was that cats should have their own vertical space.

I was basically playing fetch with her for fun.

Shortly after realizing she needed her own space, I entered in an Instagram contest on Apartments.com to tell them Italy's story with the chance at winning a $100 Petco gift card.

To my surprise, we won! I really did it! My writing skills and college degree paid off. I could finally get my cat a tree, toys, and her own cloud-like bed.

That was just the beginning of winning it big. Shortly after I'd adopted Italy, I started dating again. And that's when I reconnected with a guy from my childhood.

At this point, Italy would hide from strangers unless you visited 3 or 4 times in a row, like my mom did.

I warned my new boyfriend about her behavior.

"Don't take it personally," I said.

"We'll be best friends by the end of the weekend," he said with confidence that I wish I had.

"Sure," I agreed sarcastically.

Sure enough, Italy warmed up to this guy quicker than she'd warmed up to anyone other than my mom. And it all happened within one weekend.

Little did Little Italy know that her two now-favorite humans were planning on moving in together. He has a white, two-story castle with space for a dance room, an office, and any other room you could think of.

Okay, in reality, it's just a two-story house.

But still. Italy has TWO litter boxes, and she even has her own catwalk that he drilled into his precious living room walls to accommodate her and encourage her to regain her kitty confidence.

Today, Italy loves this man so much that she demands for him to lay down the minute he gets home from work so that way she can bask in his big-hand massages and bushy mustache kisses.

Now, instead of watching her back, she watches birds, rabbits, squirrels, chipmunks, and fish.

Instead of wondering where her next diseased carcass dinner is going to come from, she eats on a regular schedule with healthy food that makes her blonde and black coat glossy and soft.

Instead of hiding in alleyways and closets, Italy sizes up her prey from her own private patio on the second floor.

Instead of shying away or inching forward, Italy hops up on my computer chair as I type. She entertains callers on Zoom. She cuddles with me while I'm binge watching a series, and she demands to be the small spoon when it's time for bed.

Italy has come such a long way from that little kitty who was malnourished and full of sadness and loss. She's now a well-fed, confident kitty that would nothing more than for you to sincerely rub her belly when she rolls over.

She has all the toys that she could ever want, but she chooses to maul our souvenir racoon hats that we bought in California's Redwood Forest.

You can take the cat out of the city, but you can't take the city out of the cat.

And even though Italy is spoiled now, I would never want to change anything about her.

She is an inspiration of what we can overcome in a short lifetime, and for that, I am forever grateful to have her. Within the 2 years that we've been together, I've gotten therapy, medication, and the love and support that I need to be my own confident self.

It would have never happened if there wasn't a free day at the shelter. That day, I met the one who would get me out of my own head.

I met my little soulmate.

The best part?

She picked me.