Cat’s Permanent Grin Was Caused by Years of Neglect

Exactly 3 months, 12 days, and 4 hours ago, my entire world was shattered. Powder—my soul dog, my best friend—was ripped from my life by an aggressive cancer just as fast as she’d collided with it in early 2009 when my car nearly collided with her, a white puppy lost in the road at midnight. The pain has been so raw, so jarring, so unimaginable that I still can’t write about it. But in the depths of this sadness, an almost equally unimaginable being pounced into my life. That being is Lip Gloss.

It was only a couple weeks into the hurricane that had become my new normal after Powder’s loss, intensified by the near death (twice) of my father and the actual death of my second mom, Sherrie (2021 was quite the year for me), that I began the search for a feline friend on Petfinder. Nightly, I pored over pages and pages containing tens of thousands of cats, knowing it would be years, maybe decades, before I could welcome another dog into my heart—but that I still had a lonely cat at home and the space to offer to another in need. Yet equally needy, equally sad, they all appeared, yearning not to become one of the millions who enter shelters and never emerge alive each year. I couldn’t choose which cat to save and which to turn my back on. Although I don’t believe in “signs,” I needed one to overcome the paralysis.

The “sign” came when the name “Powder” flickered across my screen above the image of a plain white cat. Without even reading his description, I rushed to put in my application. This was the cat I had to have to fill that hole in my heart, if it could ever be filled.

Not an hour later, I was reading more about my cat-to-be and immediately learned that he had a brother who had to be adopted with him. They were an inseparable pair, but space for two in my humble abode, I did not have. I sighed as I emailed the shelter, Shenandoah Valley Animal Services Center (SVASC) of Lyndhurst, Virginia, withdrawing my application. Fate seemed to be taunting me like an uncatchable laser pointer.

But SVASC wasn’t ready to give up on me. “Is there another cat you’re interested in?” they replied. I halfheartedly scrolled the website, knowing I’d never find another Powder. And I was right—there will never be another of Powder, not for me, and not for this world. She is irreplaceable, and her loss is incurable.

But who I did find was Lip Gloss, a 12-year-old feline with a permanent grin—or grimace, depending on how you look at her—etched onto her face. She was strange; she was beautiful; and she was a sweet senior who had been looked over for two straight months. She instantly became mine, and I, hers.

Lip Gloss’ curious expression is actually the result of a “rodent ulcer,” or indolent ulcer, resulting from an ongoing, untreated flea infestation at her former home, where she was hoarded along with 12 other cats. According to the shelter, her fitting name “Lip Gloss” comes from the so-titled song by recording artist Lil Mama. Her original name, given by her previous family, was Mama, which makes me wonder if she’d previously been bred. The neglect at that home also left her with a cauliflower ear, crumpled because of a hematoma due to ear mites or an infection.

Despite her humbled appearance, Lip Gloss strutted into my house and made herself at home immediately. Like the queen she is, she has taken over my bed, roosting each night on my entire pillow and leaving me the corners. Sometimes, she prefers to burrow under the blanket and will meow until I oblige her by lifting the covers so she can crawl in—almost perfectly mimicking Powder, who whined incessantly for the same prize: being tucked in for a good night’s sleep.

Lip Gloss carries not only her unique physical features from her past, but also her own emotional baggage. She hoards each meal like it might be her last, nearly tripping me as she awaits feeding and then scarfing the food down so fast she occasionally throws it back up. I’ve resorted to feeding my other cat, Chia, in a separate room, lest Lip Gloss devour her entire bowl, too. But at least I’ve taught Lip Gloss some manners: she’ll sit every time, without fail, for a meal or even a morsel of food.

As predictably as her insatiable appetite, Lip Gloss does something else every day: she makes me laugh—a feat I never thought possible after Powder’s passing. Whether appearing apparently from nowhere beside my face baring her teeth and breathing like Darth Vader through her mouth (she also suffers from periodic bouts of stuffy nose brought on by feline herpes), sleeping upside-down with her fangs on display, or using her paw to hold up her bulbous tummy as she grooms herself, Lip Gloss is a perpetual comedian.

It was terrifying to adopt a senior cat so soon after I lost Powder. I thought I might lose Lip Gloss, too, in mere days. I rushed her to the vet in those early weeks at every sneeze or excessive trip to the water bowl (we’re exploring a possible, treatable thyroid issue currently, so my fears haven’t been completely unjustified). Death has surrounded me lately, stealing my ability to enjoy beautiful moments and replacing it with a loudly ticking clock in the back of my mind that counts down my own mortality, and that of everyone I know and love. At first, all I could think about was that I might only have two, or maybe four, years with Lip Gloss, if I’m lucky. And days ticked by unappreciated, and with them, beautiful moments. I broke down in bed for days and nearly missed the first time my cats broached their inexplicable silent battle over territory, lowered their batting paws, and simply played together.

Lip Gloss has forced me to stop missing those moments. I know her years are short. In the scheme of things, mine are too. We will all be plunged into the unknowable oblivion, like Powder before us. But we can make something of each day. I might not move mountains, but I can play a song on my ukulele; I can write a blog; I can post a photo revealing the marvels of the tiny shrimp who mate for life at the Hawaiian seashore on social media and reach untold people with a compassionate message. I can laugh at my cat snoring upside-down, knowing she had the strength to leave behind her years of neglect and keep grinning.

Thanks to Lip Gloss, today, I’m wide awake, and I grin, too.