Nothing feels the same, except for one thing: that daily moment when, without warning, I think I see you pass by the same old corner.
The story of Anya began on a warm summer night in 2007. I was alone at the beach house, spending a few quiet days away, when, deep into the night, a series of sharp, piercing meows shattered the stillness. It was an unexpected commotion. I assumed it was a stray or lost cat, though such sightings were rare. Back then, the beach town was almost exclusively full in summer; the rest of the year it was mostly empty. A few dogs belonged to the few neighbors who lived there year-round and made sure nothing stray entered their properties. Our house had no dogs. Still, hearing cats was rare.
More often, opossums—called comadrejas here—were seen roaming the roofs, or owls perched in the trees. They were common in those quiet nights. But this… this was something different.
At dawn, the meowing returned. Louder. More urgent. It didn’t sound like a plea for food—there was something else in it. I opened the door, and there she was: small, black and white, standing in the garden with eyes full of both need and determination. She didn’t flinch. She came toward me without hesitation.
She reminded me so much of Cookie, my other cat—also a Tuxedo—but this one was different: smaller, bonier, with messy, dirty fur. Later, the vet estimated she was about five months old, though she looked like she’d endured far more.
I offered her food. She came right over and devoured it hungrily, then tried to come inside—as if she already belonged there. She wound herself around my legs and wandered confidently through the house, as if searching for a memory. And I kept thinking: this is so strange… When I finally got a closer look, I saw it: a bite wound on her neck, raw and infected. It hurt just to see it.
What was I supposed to do? I had only a few days left before returning to the city. I already had a cat at home and didn’t want to risk illness. I didn’t have the time or the means to care for another animal—especially one needing treatment. But she wouldn’t leave. She slipped inside, ran through the rooms like she’d always lived there, and finally curled up in a cabinet among my old shoes.
That’s when I knew. The decision had already been made.
I was going to take her with me.
I was fortunate to have a dear friend step in to help. She took Anya to the vet and managed her treatment and care. A few weeks later, she smiled at me and said, “She’s all yours now.”
I named her Anyanka. Anya. From that day on, she became my companion. Not just a pet. Family.
Sometimes I feel a pang of regret that I don’t have better photos of her. I do have many, yes—but back then, I hadn’t yet developed the trained eye or daily rhythm with the camera that I have now. But I carry her with me—in memory, clear and vivid. As if I could still hear her that first night —soft, insistent— asking, without words, to stay.
And she did.
They’re not just companions—they’re family, in every way that truly matters.
Photo Taken: April 10, 2018
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