Boots Chose Us

By: Jonathan Deane Taylor

Stray cats aren’t always found at the beach.

Sometimes they appear right under your feet.

Or, in our case, underneath the Corvette in the driveway of our secluded Myrtle Beach cul-de-sac.

My wife, Issie, and I have an ongoing disagreement about which one of us has better hearing. On this particular August morning, she won.

She was sitting with her coffee, watching the steam rise from the cup and contemplating whether she should turn it into an iced coffee like the ones we get near the beach. But something kept distracting her.

Crying.

She could hear it, but she couldn’t tell where it was coming from.

She tried to ignore it for a little while. Eventually, she couldn’t.

“What is that?”

She got up to investigate. I poured myself a fresh cup of coffee and followed her outside.

Danny was already there.

Danny is our oversized, gray, furry mini-Maine Coon with a remarkably calm temperament. He looked at us, then toward the Corvette.

And stared.

His eyes were fixed on the opening underneath the car where we had removed the lower air dam.

We looked.

There she was.

At first, all we could really see was a little patch of white rising and falling with each nervous breath. Against the rest of her jet-black body, it was impossible to miss.

She was tiny. Just ounces of kitten tucked beneath a sports car, with this enormous furry beast staring directly at her.

It was about as unexpected as snow in Myrtle Beach.

This wasn’t part of a plan. We hadn’t encountered her during one of our walks near the Boardwalk. We hadn’t gone looking for a cat that needed help.

She was simply there, in our driveway.

Where was her mother? Were there other kittens? How had she ended up underneath our car?

We didn’t know.

Danny, meanwhile, apparently decided that because we had arrived, reinforcements were now in place. He inched closer.

The kitten backed away.

Issie started issuing orders.

I went for food.

A few minutes later, our mysterious little visitor was out in the open, eating tuna while Danny supervised.

And that was pretty much it.

We didn’t need a family meeting. We didn’t make a list of pros and cons.

She was home.

We named her Boots.

From Tiny Tuxedo to the Muscle from Myrtle

Boots adapted astonishingly quickly.

She had arrived at an age when she was still very young, but already discovering the world on her own. Somehow, at exactly that moment, she found a house, food, people willing to protect her—and Danny.

Danny became much more than the enormous cat who had first stared at her from across the driveway.

He became her protector.

Then her playmate.

Then her teacher.

Boots had all the instincts of a growing cat. She needed to stalk, chase, pounce, attack, retreat and try again. Danny became her chalkboard. She practiced on him constantly.

And eventually, the student surpassed the teacher.

Boots grew fast.

And hard.

She became one big muscle.

She could launch herself into a tree almost effortlessly. She raced through the house. She attacked toys—and occasionally Danny—with the intensity of a cat several times her size.

We started calling her the Muscle from Myrtle.

Danny remained our Prince of Peace.

Boots became the Duchess of Destruction.

Before long, there wasn’t much question about who was running the house.

It was Boots.

The Cat Who Doesn’t Want to Be Cuddled

Boots has never become a conventional lap cat.

Pick her up and she may complain immediately. Try to cuddle her and she’ll make sure you understand that this arrangement was not her idea.

But if she finally gives in, something remarkable happens.

Underneath all that muscle and attitude is one of the softest cats we’ve ever touched. Her black coat is extraordinarily dense and smooth, almost like velvet, broken only by the crisp white markings of her tuxedo.

She may object to being held.

She may insist she’s leaving.

And then, sometimes, she’ll stay.

That’s Boots.

Everything happens on her terms.

There Was Another Kitten

We eventually realized Boots hadn’t been alone.

She had a brother.

He grew up around our cul-de-sac, and we continued seeing him after Boots became part of our family. We tried to get close enough to help him, but neither we nor anyone else was ever able to catch him.

So we watched two siblings grow up along two very different paths.

Boots had regular meals, veterinary care, shelter and a family. Her brother remained outside.

As they grew older, the physical differences became easier to see. His coat looked rougher. His tail wasn’t as full.

Boots became strong, glossy and muscular.

For a while, she still ventured outside and occasionally encountered him.

We installed cat doors in both the garage and kitchen so Boots could come and go. It took her a couple of months to understand exactly how they worked.

Once she figured it out, that was the end of that problem.

In and out she went whenever she pleased—sometimes batting at the little door as though it were a punching bag.

Occasionally, she would see her brother.

At first there seemed to be some recognition between them.

Then less.

As time passed, the two kittens who had begun life together became strangers.

Sometimes a Cat Finds You

We think a lot about rescuing cats as something people set out to do.

Sometimes it is.

You find a cat. You make a plan. You trap her, bring her to safety, take her to the veterinarian and figure out what happens next.

But sometimes there is no plan.

Sometimes you’re drinking coffee on an August morning and hear crying outside.

Sometimes your cat stares underneath your Corvette.

And sometimes a tiny black-and-white kitten crawls out, eats some tuna and quietly makes a decision that changes everybody’s life.

We didn’t go looking for Boots that morning.

Boots found us.

And she chose exactly the right driveway.