Harvey came into our lives during a year of loss. It was 2004, and my grandmother had just died, quickly followed by our beloved cat Skeet (Manx English for “nosy”). With the family thrown into mourning, the house became eerily quiet and still, and my mother was grieving.
I was only 11, and did not know how to take care of her, but I did know that we needed the chaos and joy of a new cat. We found Harvey at the local cattery on the Isle of Man: he sat squeezed at the back of his pen, looking curiously at us with enormous, owl-like eyes. My mother smiled for the first time in months. We knew he was the cat for us.
