He said we were “just browsing.” No pressure, no big decisions. Just a casual stop by the local animal shelter after brunch—like we didn’t already have a dozen things on our to-do list.
I didn’t think twice about it—until he led me into a small visitation room and said, “Wait here for a second.”
Then he walked out.
A few minutes later, he returned… cradling a tiny gray kitten with white paws and impossibly big, curious eyes. I smiled instantly—because, come on. A kitten.
But then, I froze.
The markings. That little white chin. Even the small notch in one ear. She looked exactly like Misty—my childhood cat. The one who curled up on my pillow every night until I left for college. The cat my mom rescued the same year my dad walked out.
Tears welled up before I even touched her.
“She’s not named Misty,” he said softly, placing her gently in my lap. “But… she could be.”
She nuzzled my fingers like she already knew me.
That’s when I noticed it—loosely tied around her tiny neck, just beneath the collar: a glimmering ring.
I stared.
Then looked up at him, stunned.
“She’s part of the adoption package,” he said, voice cracking a bit. “If you say yes.”
But before I could even speak, I spotted something else engraved on the tag: “Will you maary me?”
A ring. A proposal. And… a typo?
“‘Maary’?” I asked, squinting.
His face turned beet red. “I was nervous when I ordered it. I typed too fast. I thought I checked it, but…”
I couldn’t help it—I burst into laughter. Tears spilled from my eyes—half from laughing, half from the overwhelming wave of emotion. The kitten. The ring. Him, standing there, fidgeting nervously like a teenager.
“Yes,” I said, without letting my brain overthink it.
He exhaled, dropping to one knee like he’d been holding his breath forever. “Really?”
“Absolutely,” I said again, still laughing, still crying. “Even with the extra A.”
He slid the ring onto my finger. It fit like it had always belonged there. Misty—the kitten, not the original—curled up in my lap, like she was already home.
It felt like a perfect beginning.
But that wasn’t the end.
That evening, curled up together on the couch, Misty between us, I asked, “So… how did you even find her?”
He looked sheepish. “That’s… kind of a long story.”
“I’ve got time,” I said.
So he told me.
He’d been planning the proposal for months. He knew how much I loved animals—especially cats. He remembered all the stories I’d shared about Misty. He even reached out to my mom.
He hadn’t been searching for a Misty lookalike. He just wanted a sweet kitten to charm me. But when he saw her at the shelter—same gray fur, same eyes, even the notch in the ear—it sent chills down his spine.
“It felt like the universe was giving me a sign,” he said softly. “Like it was saying, ‘She’s ready. Go for it.’”
I wrapped my arms around him, speechless. Not because of the proposal, or the kitten, but because of how deeply he’d listened. Every detail. Every memory. Every piece of my heart.
The days after were like a dream—newly engaged, new kitten parents. It felt like everything was falling into place.
But sometimes, even magic has shadows.
Three weeks later, Misty stopped eating.
At first, we thought she was just adjusting. Then she began hiding, stopped purring, stopped playing. I took her to the vet, anxiety twisting in my gut.
The vet ran tests and sat us down, his face grave.
“She has FIP,” he said quietly. “It’s a severe viral illness, and… most kittens don’t survive.”
I was stunned. “She was fine just a few days ago.”
He nodded. “It’s aggressive. She may have been exposed before the shelter took her in. There is a treatment—but it’s experimental and hard to access.”
We left in silence. Misty curled in my lap, weak but still purring softly when I stroked her.
I couldn’t accept this. She wasn’t just a cat. She was part of our story. And now we were supposed to prepare to lose her?
No.
I started researching. Reaching out online. Calling strangers. And one name kept popping up: Tasha. A woman in another state who had helped hundreds of FIP cats get access to treatment.
I contacted her. She replied immediately.
She explained everything—the meds, the schedule, the risks. It would take 84 days. It would be expensive. It wasn’t guaranteed.
But there was hope.
We went for it.
We scraped together the money. I sold heirloom jewelry. Dan picked up extra shifts. Friends pitched in. My mom offered her savings.
The medication arrived in an unmarked box.
Every day, we injected Misty with the exact dose. I hated seeing her flinch. But slowly, incredibly, she improved.
She started eating. Playing. Purring louder. Chasing string like her life depended on it.
By day 40, she was almost herself again. By day 84, her lab results came back “shockingly perfect.”
“She made it,” the vet said. “She really made it.”
But I didn’t truly believe it until day 90, when she jumped on the windowsill and chirped at the birds, tail twitching like nothing had ever happened.
We bought her a tiny medal—engraved with “FIP Warrior.” She wore it like royalty.
Life moved forward. We started wedding planning. Cake tastings. Venue tours. Misty followed us everywhere, silently judging our choices with her signature unimpressed look.
Then came the twist I never expected.
One afternoon at the vet’s, a woman in her sixties stared at Misty for a long time before softly asking, “Did you adopt her from Oakridge Shelter?”
I nodded.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “I think she’s one of the kittens I dropped off…”
She explained that her neighbor’s cat had given birth under her porch. She’d managed to rescue two of them and brought them to the shelter.
“I always wondered what became of them,” she said, eyes glistening. “That little one—she looked like a shadow with socks.”
“That’s her,” I whispered, smiling.
She gently touched Misty’s head. “I lost my husband last year. We didn’t have children. But we loved animals. Watching you two… it feels like fate brought her exactly where she needed to be.”
It hit me in that moment—how many hands had carried this kitten. How many lives she’d already touched before she ever entered ours.
We invited her—Lorraine—to the wedding.
She showed up in a floral dress and pearls, and cried harder than anyone during our vows. Misty, in a tiny white bowtie collar, sat calmly in the front row on my mother’s lap.
And later, during the reception, between bites of cake and twirls on the dance floor, Dan leaned in and whispered, “You know… this was never just about a kitten.”
I nodded.
It was about timing. About love. About listening to your heart when it whispers this is it.
So if you’re reading this, wondering whether things really do work out—they do. Not always the way you expect. Not always when you want. But they do.
And sometimes, it all begins with a shelter visit you didn’t plan.