The first time I saw Yogi, he was 7 months old. I was Scooper Extraordinaire at The Cat Doctor’s, and when I entered the storage room where Yogi lived, he would scramble from the floor of his cage into the stringy towel hammock making the cage clatter loudly. As I emptied litter pans and bleached cages, Yogi would study me through ointment-filled eyes. I worked swiftly hoping for time to play with the kitties after. They seemed like “jailbirds” to me, off the streets, getting medical attention, but caged just the same. Yogi would stick out a paw, straining to touch another cat’s toy just out of reach. But if I unlatched Yogi’s cage to play, he’d cower and tremble.

I was the Monday evening Scooper so when I showed up on a Wednesday, a white-haired woman confronted me. “Can I help you? Someone was already here to do cages today.” I stood up to her, “I’m socializing our kitties; they need it.” But that was only partly true. I needed Yogi. I placed a note on his cage that read: “If you need a foster mom for this cat, I would be willing to take him–Ann.”  Nancy Hanks later teased that when she put Yogi in a carrier to be delivered to my home, she knew it was the last time she would see him. He was my first foster cat, so I never saw them coming…those subtle signs foretelling that Yogi would someday be mine.

Yogi was thin so I called him Boney Mahoney. I fed him good food, and his coat began to shine. His black fur had white roots making him appear dusty. As I coached Gail Woodward with just the right description for his on line adoption blurb (. . . a dusty tuxedo with a goatee), I couldn’t imagine anyone else giving him the kind of care I did.

Yogi had a bedroom with two windows. But he preferred a clothing box in a shadowy closet–an endearing habit that I indulged. He came out to eat and if I tried to cuddle him, he wiggled away. When one of my cats was up to mischief (shredding a Romantic Homes magazine, missing the litter box), Yogi would run around squealing. (My cats Riot and Charity asked if his first job had been town crier.) But one night, Yogi took a chance. He leaped onto my bed and plopped down on the blanket. Riot and Charity stared. I froze. Then nonchalantly, Yogi began to groom himself. And I secretly smiled inside.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say I adopted Yogi. We all did. Me, Riot, and Charity. He continued to hide when he sensed danger. He had safe spots all over the house. But closets remained his favorite. When Yogi was 14, he was diagnosed with intestinal lymphoma which progressed quickly. Those last weeks, I held him like a baby, and he would sleep on my back at night, purring like an old jalopy. I cherished our bond. When Yogi left us, I sobbed. Every cell in my body cried out: “I want him back. I just want him back.” To this day, I keep closet doors open about 12 inches. You never know when Yogi might want to nap in one of his favorite boxes. I continue to indulge him. And miss him bunches.