Gracie the cat found our way to us when my daughters were young. She had been thrown from a moving car and landed, limping, in the front yard of a kind couple who cared for her. They couldn’t take her in because they’re inside cat was quite territorial and wouldn’t allow it. And so they sought a home for the ginger-colored cat, and through a friend of a friend, she came to us. 

When she entered our house, Gracie was respectful. She moved gently and silently, her body and pace relaxed. She observed people and animals before doing anything. Our resident cat was unthreatened and curious about her. Our rescue pit bull befriended her immediately, and he frequently showed his affection by slurping her face. Gracie tolerated it, squinted against it, shook off the spit, and then gazed fondly at the dog.

Gracie connected deeply with my younger daughter and allowed all the things that young girls do with cats: dressing her up in doll’s clothing, pushing her around in a pram, draping her over her shoulder and wandering through the house.

Gracie had an understanding of things. One example is this—she always slept with my younger daughter, but the one and only night she changed her routine was when our beloved pit died. That night, Gracie divided her time between all of us, lending her gentle presence and snuggling against us in our beds before moving to the next person.

I love this picture of her. The backdrop is a twilight snowfall. Gracie sat for a long time, gazing outward at the evening. When she turned around, she looked me in the eye, blinked slowly, jumped down, and sauntered through the house.