She had a shady past. But it was not her fault. Starla was one of 128 cats seized by animal control from a notorious, unlicensed rescue in Canoga Park. Angel Mug or Puss or some such outfit. The manner in which they cared for these cats was outrageously cruel. Carriers and cages were “stacked like shoe boxes.” AC found cats living in filth, 15 of them dead in the freezer, one in a carrier. Most were sick. Of those removed, 74 cats needed immediate medical attention. Starla was transported to a south LA shelter annex and kept as evidence for the criminal case. Angels? No. Shady? Yes. They were eventually shut down.

Kitten Rescue stepped up, taking about 30 of them. Starla went to live at Casitas, their sanctuary in Atwater Village. That’s where I first saw her–cohabitating in a huge enclosure with a friendly black cat she disliked. (I soon learned that Starla did not like ANY cats.) The KR pres held Starla in his arms like a baby, and she adored it. Every whisker on my face signaled that Starla would be an easy-going foster. She was young, 1 or 2, and so loving. I took her home.

During her quarantine, I would carry Starla around the house inside a small carrier for her own protection while she glared down at my cats. I wanted her to be familiar with the layout and our daily activities but feel safe. I never needed to remind myself where Starla came from. She must have seen and experienced unspeakable things, and every one of them had shaped her temperament. So when she smacked me for the slightest infraction, and put on her growly, hissy face, I just loved on her more. I called it Hug Therapy. I somehow found infinite patience and poured it all over her.

With time, Starla’s purrsonality emerged. She knew how to play with toys all by herself. My other cats would bring me a toy and wait. Or want me to wave a string toy in their faces. Not Starla. She could toss a toy mouse into the air about 2 feet and then run and catch it. The whole time, she would be talking or squealing delightfully. If I said, “Mouse,” Starla would shoot me a knowing look. Like the word meant the thing and the thing was the toy. (I know. Just like Helen Keller, right?) She was great fun to watch. I wondered if someone taught her how to play fetch or if circumstances had made her teach herself.

Cats that need you the most tug on your heart. Starla’s beginnings were so rough that I was determined to make her life better. Prove to her that it could be. She finally accepted us (well mostly) and took her place on my pillow at night, sleeping at the top of my head. She felt safe there. Starla seemed happy, at last. And she became a lap cat–something most potential adopters were looking for.

But Starla was a hellion at adoption events. She disliked children, and they seemed to know this and teased her. Once, a little girl stared at Starla, deliberately making an ugly face, and Starla swung at her. My heart stopped. When I pulled the child away, I expected to see long, bloody tracks down her face. I covered Starla’s cage with a blanket, but people annoyingly went out of their way to lift it to peek inside. I never took Starla back to adoptions again. She was a liability.

In 2019, I saw Starla’s chest jerk strangely, almost like a silent cough. It just happened once, and it was so subtle. It was time for a senior checkup anyway. X-rays showed a nodule inside her lung. I drove Starla to an internist where an ultrasound and cytology revealed lung cancer. I was stunned. She hadn’t shown any major symptoms. But almost overnight, Starla’s breathing became labored. We did a thoracentesis 3 times to extract fluid from her pleural lining, but the benefit lasted only 3 days. Starla had to be sedated for them and then closely monitored. One young vet told me, “She hates everything I do to her.” Starla was clearly unhappy, and I was running out of options. I booked one last appointment to inquire about chemo. I wanted to be thorough. The oncologist said the cancer was advanced, and the chemo she used for cats was not effective with lung cancer.

I made a choice to prevent the next late-night, panicked trip to a 24-hour vet. I made a choice to prevent Starla from being subjected to yet another needle or oxygen cage. I made a choice to let her go peacefully. I chose the day and the time. There was great sadness sprinkled with unexpected relief. That was not a choice.