She started appearing at my front door about 10 years ago. A scrawny little thing, but with the cutest little round face. I'd walk out the door headed for work, and she'd be standing out in front, looking up at me to say hello.
I was -- and still am -- highly allergic to cats (all my allergy test results list cats at the top of my no-no list), so I didn't dare go near her. Plus I didn't want fleas getting all over me, and cat hair on my pant hems to boot. But she was just so darn sweet I couldn't help myself; soon enough I found myself patting her head gingerly and even allowing her to rub her face and brush her tail around my legs.
She looked hungry (I didn't know then that half my neighbors were feeding her) so one afternoon while she rested on the porch, I ran into the kitchen to see what I could give her. I had cereal and non-fat, lactose-free milk. I brought her each in a small plastic tupperware bowl. She came over, sniffed my offerings, then gently looked up at me with a face that seemed to mock me: "Are you insane? What IS this?" I got her non-verbal message loud and clear, took a quick trip to the grocery store and came home with stacks of Sheba cat food. I'd seen the TV ads and the cat actors appeared to eat happily and enthusiastically (oh hell, what did I know then?).
Soon enough, I left a little makeshift bed on the porch, for her to rest in whenever she came by. I took a large square cardboard box from Costco, lined it in newspaper, and set it out in a sheltered and hidden area so she'd feel safe.
I didn't know what else to do, so I called Stacy for cat lessons -- and she quickly came over to the rescue, as she always does. Stacy expertly played with the brown tabby and told me a little bit about her: she once belonged to someone because she had been declawed (front paws only) but she either had been abandoned or ran away and had been on her own for quite some time. Then Stacy delivered the kicker to the sob story, "If someone doesn't take her in, she will surely die -- she can't defend herself because she doesn't have claws."
Every night I found it difficult to sleep; I kept thinking about the sweet little cat outside somewhere, defenseless and maybe even scared. Then one night I heard blood-curdling screams and cries outside my bedroom window and jumped to my feet in a flash. Someone was attacking my cat! I ran out, heart pounding and on the verge of tears. I prayed she wasn't dead or dying. My neighbors were outside a few minutes later; apparently they suspected their cat was involved in the tussle. In a few minutes we realized what had just transpired -- their huge white fluffy cat was hiding in a shrub by the side of my house. She was hiding from my cat; my cat with no claws had won easily. That was my first proud mommy moment.
I went back into the house and told my (now ex) husband that I had to take her in or else I'd go nuts with worry. He really had no choice in the matter and knew it, even if he had announced early on there was no way the cat was entering our home. The next morning, I opened the door and let her in the house. When I closed the door behind her, she cried loudly and scampered about madly, confused and scared. I let her out again and realized she had to choose to come in on her own; she wasn't mine just because I wanted her.
Eventually but slowly, she let herself into my life. In the beginning she would sleep in the sunroom at night, leaving the house in the morning the same time I left for work and returning when I did. I can't remember how long it was before she never left the house again. It took me six months to give her a name; at first I called her "Cat" because I was hoping she'd let me know what she wanted to be called (my neighbors had christened her "Candy" which I thought was so wrong; she was sweet but hardly saccharine). When the name finally came to me, I knew it was perfect: Boo.
Boo was the name of my favorite teddy bear, the one that made the trip with me when I came over here to study. Boo because this cat seemed to spook easily. And Boo after the name of the character in "To Kill a Mockingbird" because I suspected that, just like the literary Boo, this one would one day save my life.
And she really has saved me, much more than I saved her. I may have taken her away from harm's way, but she rescued me by giving me a reason to live when I thought I had none left. She comforted me during a bad marriage, miscarriage, and divorce. 
She even picked Arnel for me (she hid from all my other dates but came out of the closet and rubbed against him the first time we went out) and later helped him propose marriage (that story to come later). Every night, she waits for me to slip under the covers, then she jumps beside me and lies there until I fall asleep. It never fails, just when all my muscles start softening and my worries fade away, she quietly jumps out of bed and tiptoes to her own cozy in the office.
I call her my baby (I do love her as my own child, especially because I have none) but I suspect she thinks of me as hers too. Love's a wonderful thing: you always hope it's waiting for you outside your front door, and sometimes it really is.
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