My cat cheated on me. . .

This happened to me. Seriously. Only in reverse.

My mom had a friend who was a communist sympathizer. Somehow, we inherited two female cats from her, which were my two first real feline loves. One was a very rotund tabby named Nikolaia. The other was a similarly plump black cat named Jamesa. Actually, she was black but when you rubbed her fur, you could see another layer of russet-red fur. And when she got to be a senior cat, you could also see white fur.

I believe the cats' names were Russian. I have no idea how to spell them, because I was little and figured out the spelling myself. Nikolaia was my favorite of the two cats, because I forever love a tabby and because she was fatter than Jamesa. (I was obsessed with those illustrations of big fat tabby cats with small heads drawn by Bernard Kilban.

As often happens with cats who lead the indoor-outdoor lifestyle, Nikolaia eventually disappeared. I was heartbroken, for a time. But her absence allowed me to bond further with Jamesa, who as the quieter cat had almost flown under my radar. She was quite a cat. Jamesa was dignified of dignity, but she was also down-to-earth. She regularly smelled like motor oil because she loved to roll in patches of dry but still extant oil in the garage. She never acted like a complete pet--she liked to come and go, and preferred to be petted while she had all four feet on the ground rather than scooped up. Still, I was protective of her and would set up a sort of campsite for her, comprised of a towel or comforter and a propped umbrella, when it rained.

Anyhow, back to the point of the story. We began seeing Jamesa less and less. Her visits to our porch were still regular, but they were intermittent. Then, one day, a family that was new to our street saw us fawning over Jamesa on our porch and came over to talk to us. They were excited to meet someone else who knew the fat black cat of whom they had grown fond.

Jamesa had adopted them as a part-time family, they shared. She would come into their garage and enjoy a bowl of kibble. Later, she would return to us and graze a bit from the bowl we provided.

This double-life struck me as a bit disloyal. Jamesa was mine! And to top it all off, the kids confided that they had given a name to our cat: "Winky." The ordinariness and cuteness of the name sounded insipid and demeaning to me, because Jamesa's queenly name matched her elegance. But, like all feline enablers, I came to accept Jamesa's part-time love, enjoying her presence like a precious gift--as, I'm sure, her on-the-side family did--until she disappeared.

Jamesa was very old, and probably went off to die alone. Still, I impulsively drew up a wanted poster, using crayons. There wasn't a picture, just the words "Lost Cat, Jamesa. One million dollar reward." I don't remember if I was practical enough to leave a phone number.

No one came to claim their $1 million reward, but Jamesa was, indeed, one in a million. She also, like the ornery cat in the meme, tried to move into another home. It is a testament to her appeal that she partially succeeded.

--Sarah Torribio