Fifteen years ago, I finally had a flat to myself again and, full of excitement, I had a friend drive me to a local shelter to adopt me a cat. To be specific, two cats. Indoor cats. Female. Indoor cats are a lot of hard work — and no one likes to deal with litter trays — but my new flat was on the junction of two very busy streets in a pretty grotty neighbourhood so outdoor cats seemed irresponsible.

We pulled up at the shelter and I leapt out of the car like a demented gazelle, giddy as a kid on Christmas morning, and barely managed to wait for my friend before charging inside. I explained what I was looking for to the young lady inside and she took me to look at the cats that were up for adoption. To my shock, about half of the cats seemed to be chocolate point siamese — several hundred pounds a pop, so not what you expect to find in a shelter.

The girl explained that they had all been rescued from a mad old cat lady who was keeping all twenty of them in a one-bedroom house and feeding them enough for maybe fifteen cats. They’d been in a real state when they were brought in, but they’d been fed up and were now full of beans. I was now, if anything, even more excited at the prospect of adopting as the thought of a pair of these magnificent kitties wandering around my flat was really exciting to me. I wandered up the aisle, taking my time and greeting each of the cats in turn, trying to not just yell, “OH, MY GOD! JACK WANT ALL KITTIES! GIVE KITTIES TO JACK NOW!

Cage after cage was filled with these huge, beautiful, and very, very vocal cats, pressing themselves against the front of the cages for pettings. I was totally confused — how would I ever choose? — until I got to the last cage. There, my confusion ended.

In this cage were, once again, two siamese cats. But these two were maybe half the size of the others, and they weren’t pressing against the front of the cage looking for cuddles. They were huddled at the back of the cage, as far away from humans as they could get. I later found out that they were also recovering from cat flu. The cat I would come to know as Sif was huddled into the corner as tightly as she could squeeze herself, and the warrior who would be Freya was lying half on top of her, cuddling as close as she could and I knew. I just knew.

Those other cats, brimming with health and confidence? They could go anywhere, be adopted by anyone, but these two were going to need a special home with someone patient, and I was determined that I would give them that home.

It’s taken years to get them to act like proper, confident goddesses-of-all-they-survey — y’know, cats — and they still get skittish around new people, but Sif will now walk up to people in my flat and demand cuddles — remember, siamese — and even Freya will allow people to pet her, though she has some hilariously specific rules.

And now, beloved readers, those two terrified little cats — the cats I didn’t even see for the first two weeks that they lived with me because they were hiding behind the fridge — those two cats will now not only climb onto my lap at any chance they get but, if I’m wearing a front opening top, they will climb inside that top — with no regard at all for my tender, easily-punctured skin! — and they curl up and they purr and purr as if they’ve finally found their happy spot. And sometimes this makes my face leak, just a little bit.

I was working at my volunteer job, socializing cats at the local animal shelter, when I noticed that we had a new kitten in with the name of Phil. A young couple entered and began examining our kittens, when suddenly I heard one of them say, “Phil? His first name is Agent!”

Unsurprisingly, Phil was swiftly adopted.

There’s an animal shelter we used to frequent a few blocks away from my house. The place had a prominent blackboard in the entrance announcing any upcoming events that might interest people, like adoption days or charity drives.

One day, however, when I arrived, I advised one of the employees to do something about the new announcement. It read, in big letters, “Adoption Saturday,” but underneath that, someone had written, in smaller letters, “Yummy meat pies on Sunday!”

(I am a volunteer at a no-kill pet shelter. A few weeks ago, a couple came in with the angriest cat we had ever seen. Along with a severe case of mange, he was also missing his right eye. The couple explained that their neighbors had moved and left the cat locked inside a junker car parked behind their house. Even with every volunteer working to rehabilitate him, “One-Eyed Willy” proves to be a difficult case; he bites and scratches, yowls constantly, and does not get along with other male cats. We resign to having him as a permanent resident. One week, I arrive to find that One-Eyed Willy is missing from the cat room. A fellow volunteer explains that he’s been adopted over the weekend. The general consensus is that he has been taken in as a charity case and will be returned when the new owner finds him too difficult to handle. Terrified that whoever this person is will ruin a month of hard work, I can do nothing but wait until they return for his neutering appointment in two weeks. I am working the front desk when a young woman approaches me. She does not have a kennel, but has a cat tucked into her jacket.)

Woman: “Hi! I’m here to drop off Creampuff for his appointment?”

(As any adopted cats are referred to by their new names, it takes me a second to realize that she’s holding One-Eyed Willy! He is purring up a storm, curled up in her arms like a baby. While we go over the paperwork, I notice that he is wearing a hand-knit vest to cover his mange spots. With my heart already melting, I get talking to her.)

Me: “So, has he been behaving himself?”

Woman: “Oh, he’s the best cat in the world! I have a teensy bit of trouble sometimes when I need to go to the store, though.”

(She unzips her jacket and sets One-Eyed Willy on the counter. Immediately, he begins to whine like a baby. She picks him up and he stops.)

Woman: *while giggling and smothering him in kisses* “It’s a good thing I work from home, or I’d be evicted!”

(It isn’t easy working at a shelter, but times like this make it all worth it!)

(I work in an animal shelter. I’m out walking one of the rescues, a beautiful black and white pit bull who just loves meeting new people. This is probably the friendliest dog I have ever met, and one who has bonded with me over two months.)

Little Girl: “Puppy!”

Mother: “Oh, no, honey, don’t go near that; you might get bitten.”

Me: “I really appreciate you not letting your daughter run right up to her, but if she would like to pat Jazz, she’s definitely welcome to.”

Mother: “Oh, no, never. I saw one of those on TV once; it mauled somebody. I will not allow that beast to hurt my precious little angel. Maybe if it were a beagle, but not that monster.”

Me: “Oh, I understand the fear of pits for sure, but I assure you, Jazz is a really good girl. She loves children.”

(Jazz lays down and rolls onto her back as I scratch her belly.)

Woman: “How can you touch that thing without being afraid? It could bite your hand off!”

Me: “Jazz and I are best buddies; I’ve been with her since she got here. Now, I don’t want to scare you with her anymore, so I’ll continue going this way. The shelter is back the other way a little bit.”

(I continue my walk into the woods, where there are a nice set of trails. The customer decides to yell out to me.)

Woman: “It’s a monster! It could hurt you very badly. I suggest you leave it in the woods. Tie it to a tree and never come back!”

(I ignore her and continue my walk. When I return to the building, I put Jazz outside in one of the pens and walk in to return the leash. I see the woman and her daughter looking at the different dogs with the shelter manager. She spots me out of the corner of her eye.)

Woman: “Oh, it’s you. I’m going to guess you didn’t leave that monster out in the woods, did you?”

Manager: “The monster?”

Woman: “Yes, this boy had a pit bull. I told him he should just tie it to a tree and leave, but I guess he decided not to.”

Manager: “Yeah, I’m sorry, but suddenly all of our dogs have been adopted already. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Woman: “Is this about the pit bull? I’d never hurt an animal, but I think you should put a bullet in the head of every one of those.”

Manager: “Out.”

(The woman’s name was put on the cannot-adopt list, and to my knowledge never came back. I will never understand why this woman would say any of that, especially in front of her daughter, but I suppose that’s one less neglected dog in someone’s house.)

This story is part of our Animal Shelter Roundup!

Read the next Animal Shelter Roundup story!

Read the Animal Shelter roundup!