I didn’t question it at first—until he guided me into a small visitation room and said, “Wait here a moment.”
Then he left.
A few minutes later, he returned holding a tiny gray kitten with white paws and huge, curious eyes. I smiled right away—because, really, who can resist a kitten?
But then I froze.
The markings—the little white chin, the small notch in her ear—she looked just like Misty, my childhood cat who used to curl up on my pillow every night before I left for college. The same cat my mom had rescued the year my dad left us.
Tears welled up as I reached out to hold her.
“She’s not Misty,” he said softly as he placed the kitten in my lap. “But she could be.”
She nuzzled my hand as if she recognized me.
That’s when I noticed it—a small ring hanging loosely under her collar, glinting in the light.
I stared, then looked up at him, mouth slightly open.
“She comes with the adoption,” he said, voice catching a bit, “but only if you say yes.”
Before I could respond, I saw the engraving on the back of the tag: “Will you maary me?” with two A’s — and a ring attached.
I blinked, thinking I’d misread it. Then I looked again.
He blushed. “Okay, so I was really nervous when I ordered it and typed too fast. I thought I double-checked, but apparently not.”
I couldn’t hold it in—I laughed, tears streaming from both the humor and the emotion. This tiny kitten. The ring. Him standing there, nervously fidgeting like a schoolboy.
“Yes,” I said before overthinking could ruin the moment.
He sighed in relief and dropped to one knee like he’d been holding his breath forever. “Really?”
“Absolutely,” I said, still laughing through tears. “Even with the typo.”
He slipped the ring onto my finger—it fit like it had been made for me all along. Misty—the kitten, not the original—curled up in my lap as if she already belonged.
It was perfect.
But the story didn’t end there.
That evening, curled up on the couch with Misty between us, I asked, “How did you find her, anyway?”
He smiled sheepishly. “That’s a bit of a longer story.”
I looked at him. “Try me.”
He explained how he’d been planning to propose for months. He knew how much I loved cats, especially Misty, and even talked to my mom about her.
What he hadn’t expected was to find a kitten who looked so much like her.
“I wasn’t even searching for one that looked like Misty,” he admitted. “I just wanted a sweet cat that might win your heart. But when I saw her… the resemblance was uncanny. Same gray fur, same eyes, even that notch in the ear.”
He said it gave him chills, like a sign from the universe.
“Like maybe it was fate nudging me,” he said, stroking Misty’s tiny head as she purred. “Like it was telling me, ‘She’s ready. Go for it.’”
I hugged him tight, overwhelmed—not just by the proposal or the kitten, but by the thoughtfulness behind every detail.
In the days that followed, we settled into this new chapter—engaged life, kitten parents, a little bit of magic.
But magic, I’ve learned, often has its shadows.
Three weeks after adopting Misty, she stopped eating.
At first, we thought she was just being picky. Then she started hiding under the couch. Her purring faded, and her playful spirit vanished. I took her to the vet, my heart pounding.
The vet ran tests and sat us down with a serious look.
“She has FIP,” he said quietly. “It’s a severe viral illness—almost always fatal in kittens.”
I stared, stunned. “But she was fine days ago.”
He nodded. “It progresses fast. She might have been infected before coming to the shelter. There is a treatment, but it’s experimental and rare.”
We drove home silently. Misty curled weakly in my lap but still purred when I stroked her.
It felt like the universe was playing a cruel joke. This kitten wasn’t just a pet—she was part of our story’s beginning. And now, we were told to prepare to lose her?
I refused to accept that.
So I researched, called around, and found hope in the form of a woman named Tasha, who helped many cats with FIP access the treatment.
She responded quickly, explaining the medication, the schedule, the careful monitoring. It would take 84 days, be costly, and wasn’t guaranteed.
But it was hope.
We decided to try.
We scrambled to raise the money—I sold some vintage jewelry I’d inherited, Dan (my fiancé) picked up extra shifts, friends chipped in, and my mom offered savings.
The meds arrived in an unmarked box. Every day, same time, we gave Misty the precise dose. It broke my heart to see her wince, but slowly, miraculously, she improved.
Her appetite returned. She chased her tail. She even did the bunny kick with her back legs when we dangled a toy mouse.
By day 40, she was almost herself again. By day 84, tests showed her numbers were “shockingly perfect.”
“She beat it,” the vet said, astonished.
I wanted to believe it. I didn’t fully relax until day 90, when she jumped on the windowsill and chirped at birds like nothing had ever happened.
Misty survived.
We got her a tiny heart-shaped tag that said “FIP Warrior.” She wore it proudly.
Life steadied. We planned the wedding—tasted cakes, toured venues. Misty followed us around like our little unimpressed supervisor.
Then came the unexpected twist.
One day at the vet, an older woman kept staring at Misty.
Finally, she asked, “Did you adopt that cat from Oakridge Shelter?”
I nodded.
Her hand flew to her mouth. “I think she’s the kitten I dropped off.”
I blinked. “What?”
She explained her neighbor’s cat had given birth under her porch, and she’d caught two kittens and taken them to the shelter since she couldn’t keep them.
“I always wondered what happened to them,” she said, tears in her eyes. “That little one—she looked like a shadow with socks.”
I smiled. “That’s her.”
She gently touched Misty. “I lost my husband last year. We never had kids, but loved animals. I didn’t think I could handle another pet… but watching you two, it feels like fate put her in the right home.”
It struck me—how many lives had touched this tiny kitten even before we met her. How a small creature could connect so many hearts in ways we never expected.
We invited that woman—Lorraine—to our wedding.
She came dressed in florals and pearls and cried harder than anyone when we exchanged vows. Misty, wearing a little white bowtie collar, sat calmly in the front row on my mom’s lap.
Later, during the reception, Dan whispered, “You know, none of this was really just about a kitten.”
I nodded.
It was about timing. Faith. Kindness. And a love that quietly persists through all the chaos.
So if you’re reading this wondering if things really do work out—they do. Maybe not how you planned. Maybe not when you expected. But they do.
And sometimes, it all starts with a spontaneous visit to a shelter.
If this story touched your heart, please like and share it with someone who needs a reminder that love—and healing—can come when you least expect it.