Street Cats are NOT Free

It was the end of my freshman year, and I think I was just starting to feel like a real adult. I had survived dorm life, figured out how to be on my own, and suddenly wanted to make a real, grown-up decision. So when my friend texted me a photo of a tiny kitten she found crying under a car and asked if I wanted her, I said yes immediately.

I called my mom—she said “sure,” shockingly—and within an hour I was Instacarting formula, puppy pads, a carrier, and kitten bottles to my dorm. I wasn’t even technically allowed to have candles in there, but I was now hiding a cat. I named her Blue because of her eyes. I thought it was clever. (It wasn’t. All kittens are born with blue eyes. They’re green now.)

The Picture of "Blue" I Received

Everything was going surprisingly well. Until it wasn’t. She bit the tip off her bottle and swallowed it.

I panicked, of course. She was wheezing, I was crying, and we ended up at the vet. They did bloodwork and X-rays and held her like she was radioactive. The results: pneumonia, two types of worms, and yes—the bottle nipple sitting right there in her stomach. Very clear. Very unmissable.

At this point, I feel it’s worth referencing that episode of The Office where Michael hits Meredith with his car and then says it was actually good because they discovered she had rabies. That’s how I feel about the nipple tip. She had worms, pneumonia, and God knows what else. But if she hadn’t swallowed plastic, I wouldn’t have known any of it.

Anyway, the vet bill came to a little over $1,000. I was a broke college freshman with an illegal cat and a spiraling sense of responsibility. I cried so hard in the exam room that my nose started bleeding. The vet told me she was too small for surgery, so they couldn’t remove the bottle piece. Cool. Love that. Not sure why we needed the X-rays, but okay.

Then they quoted another $500 for medication.

I stood there, doing math I already knew didn’t work, and then paid it. I couldn’t be the girl who gave up on her cat.

From there, we were locked in. I renamed her Munch because she bites (frequently, aggressively) and also nearly died from aggressively munching plastic. The name suits her. She’s sassy, stubborn, temperamental, and doesn’t like anyone but me. It’s been four years and I still wouldn’t describe her as sweet, but she’s my girl.

And then came part two of the chaos: moving out.

My roommate was gone, my dorm was cleared out, and it was just me, four suitcases, and Munch. I was heading to the airport, ready to fly home. I didn’t own a car (freshmen couldn’t), and driving from Miami to Dallas wasn’t an option. So I did what anyone would do: Ubered to the airport with a kitten in my lap.

Turns out, cats can be too small to fly. She weighed 0.4 pounds. The airline said no.

I cried again. This time in front of the gate agent, holding Munch while trying to plead my case. I had no plan, no backup, and no idea what to do. They offered to rebook my flight for the next morning while I figured it out. I sat on the floor at customer service and spiraled. Later, I saw a post on YikYak that read, “I hope the girl crying at the airport with her cat is okay.” It had 50 upvotes.

As a last resort, I sent a message in my sorority GroupMe. I barely knew anyone in it. But one girl replied. A literal angel. She said she’d keep Munch until she was big enough to fly.

She came to get her that night, around 11 p.m. I handed her the cat, the meds, the carrier, and tried to keep it together. It didn’t work. More tears. I then returned to my dorm, where—by some miracle—I still had access to my room because I’d forgotten to check out online. My dorm was completely empty. No sheets, no belongings. Just the standard-issue blue mattress and a blanket. I ordered McDonald’s and curled up on the plastic-covered twin XL, defeated.

The next morning, I flew home. Catless.

Four weeks later, I flew back to Miami for one night to get her. I used Skiplagged and got flagged, almost banned from flying, but I made it. I picked up Munch, stayed at my Big’s house, and returned to the airport the next day. They tried to tell me again that she was too small, but I came prepared—with documents, proof of her weight, and frankly, a level of energy that scared the gate agent. They let us board.

We made it.

Munch is four years old now. Still tiny. Still 6 pounds. I think she was the runt of the litter. Probably abandoned by her mom. She has trust issues and so do I, so it works.

She hates most people. She glares like it’s her job. But she’s mine. And she’s been mine since that day in the dorms when I said yes to a feral stray kitten like it was no big deal.

She’s my best friend. She’s my emotional support animal. She’s a college girl. And she’s the best accidental decision I’ve ever made.