Our Year with Penny

The day I met Penny my life was pretty much falling apart.

My husband had just told me he wanted to leave. We were in the middle of a remodel, and our house literally was falling apart. I had a job at a costume store in a city south of Los Angeles. But I felt farther than ever from my dream of being a Hollywood costume designer.

How was I even going to make my house payment?

Penny was a kitten. Weeks old, a scrawny, filthy ball of black fur with runny eyes and a runny nose, she turned up one day in the backyard. I picked her up and, though she looked near death, she immediately purred with pleasure.

I already had one rescue cat named Annie. And I had a pretty good idea where Penny had come from. But I knew if I took her back there—a neighbor’s yard overrun with feral cats—she’d die. I took her inside.

I made her a bed of towels and set out a little tuna and water. I came home at lunch to check on her and found Annie eyeing me suspiciously. Annie was a street cat, and in the four years she’d lived with me she’d gotten about as far as tolerating my presence.

She let me hold her—sometimes. Mostly she was outside, ignoring me. I’d never heard her purr. Now she glowered at Penny. Penny, however, was as chipper as ever. She hadn’t eaten anything since I’d found her, but she nuzzled me anyway.

I took her to the vet and got antibiotics for her eyes and nose and vitamins to help her grow. Her respiratory infection had been so bad she’d been unable to eat. A few days later she began wolfing down food and venturing around the house. Annie pretty much disappeared.

If I’d thought about it I would have felt stupid taking on another stray cat. Life only got worse after Penny’s arrival. My husband and I started our divorce, and any hopes I’d had for an amicable process were dashed. I’d have to get a lawyer—which I couldn’t afford. I couldn’t afford to finish the remodel, either.

My husband and I had been sharing the work and there it sat, gaping holes that looked like I felt. Days I didn’t work I lay in bed, thinking of everything I was too depressed to take on—the lawn, the house, looking for that job I so wanted. What was the point of getting up?

Actually, Penny was the point. The minute she had strength she began tearing around the house. Most mornings it was her nuzzling head or playful paw waking me up. Or an alarming crash as she nosed her way into yet another accident.

I’d leap up and there she’d be in the midst of a mess, looking at me like, “Isn’t this fun?”