The Cat Who Saved My Life

A veterinarian once told me that orange cats were easy to deal with. He’d obviously never met Bosco.

I got Bosco in the early 1990s. My friend Brent had heard about him from another friend at Metro. Bosco had been living in a fish stall at the Pike Place Market, but had been hit by a car. A woman who managed an apartment building at the market had taken Bosco to the animal hospital, and he was recuperating in an empty basement apartment, all by himself. I took him home.

In retrospect, its clear that Bosco’s injuries must have been fairly serious, as he showed all sorts of neurological issues later in life (some of which I’ll describe in further on). He threw up a lot. And, because he’d been trained to newspapers instead of a litter box, he’d pee on anything rectangular on the floor (bathmats, etc.)

But his difficult beginnings didn’t stop him from being a deeply affectionate cat. He adored me.

How did Bosco save my life? I had a regrettable on-and-off again relationship with a charming man, referred to here as “Mr. Wrong.” Mr. Wrong would break up with me and a few days later—actually, a few nights later—call me in the early morning hours to apologize. One night I was standing my hallway (these were the days of landlines) listening to one such tearful apology, when Bosco wandered from the dark living room into the lit hallway, squinted up at me, and barfed.

I got the message and hung up on “Mr. Wrong.”