Belén Yudess ’25
Copy Editor
The day we brought my cat home, I wanted to give her back. I shied away in terror every time she stalked by, her gentle paws ready to unsheath a set of claws made sharp by her days on the streets. She was a total nightmare those first couple of months (literally, as she never let us sleep through the night without attacking my feet or my dad’s bald head), but over time she became synonymous with a reality filled with learning and love.
She was eight weeks old when we brought her home. The size and color of a metallic water bottle with soft gray fur with splashes of white and orange sprinkled throughout her coat; she was the only kitten in the shelter that day, wanted by all the young families who were in search of a spring pet. But she was ours, our Bella, named after the city in which she was found, a testament to her survival.
I remember watching in fascination as the shelter employee who was in charge of her care whisked her out of the display cage and proceeded to let her crawl across her shoulders and onto her head. It was evident this kitten was determined to reach whatever height she desired. I had never seen a creature with so much resolve.
Bella was so enamored by every fallen palm, out of place patch of grass, and oversized pillow she came across as she explored our house for the first time. She would poke her head in the smallest holes and amuse herself as she rearranged her limbs to squeeze inside. Nothing was off limits and the greenery of our backyard that I had begun to overlook became renewed the more Bella claimed it as her own.
Of course, with discovery also comes devastation. The more Bella gained consciousness of her new surroundings, the more, in true feline fashion, she gained territorial awareness and domination. Meaning that she basically killed the entire lizard population in our local vicinity. After the lizards, came the birds and mice she would drag into the house, and if they were dead, then that was a lucky day.
I’ve been thinking about Bella’s early years a lot recently as my family and I recently said goodbye to her former nemesis turned friend, our dog Snow. Snow, who was my grandmother’s dog’s puppy, had been with us since she was one month old, which was four months after we had gotten Bella. They grew up together and remained life long partners until the end.
The day we brought Snow home, Bella tackled her to the ground and refused to let her go until my dad interfered. My parents and I had already been nervous as to how their introduction would go and this seemed to be a flashing red light signaling a grave mistake. But when we took the two to the vet a few weeks later, the doctor reassured us that Bella’s behavior was a good sign. That she was trying to play with Snow, develop a relationship, and the best thing we could do was let it happen; so we did, and the ensuing result was beautiful.
Over the years, I have watched Bella and Snow experience almost every stage of life. From their early years of Bella learning to climb trees that Snow would chase squirrels up, to their more recent shared midnight patrolling of the backyard for roaming possums and skunks. I would watch them gang up on our other dog, Walter, who passed my senior year of high school, both messing with him as he glanced confusingly around for the culprits who would steal his food and toys. I have watched as they slept together in my bed, taking warmth in a presence they have known their entire lives.
It’s funny how pets can become such a significant part of our family. We often take them for granted and it can be difficult to fathom how such a tiny being can become so ingrained in our routine and idea of home. I was ten when we got Bella and Snow; 12 years of waking up to Bella’s incessant purring as she waited to be fed and coming home to Snow’s shrill bark that drove my dad crazy (I know he misses it now, we all do).
The three of us grew up together. They sat by my side when I broke my toe and recovered from a stomach infection in eleventh grade. They forcefully sat for the blurry selfies I took of the three of us when I got my first iphone in 7th grade. They were my comfort on nights when my mom was in the hospital and after Walter died. I don’t really remember what it was like living in my house before the two of them, and now it’s time for Bella, my parents, and I to learn what that looks like without Snow.
As Snow prepared to pass, Bella came inside and watched her from our kitchen countertop. Our entire family, including my grandmother, aunt, and godmother who helped deliver Snow, were present. Watching the life go out of Snow, my scruffy little rat dog who held more life in her than she knew what to do with, both broke and mended my heart. She left this world the way she had come into it; with grace and surrounded by abounding love, which included Bella’s.
Although it might be silly to accredit this learning to a cat and dog, they have been two of the best teachers I have had throughout my life. No one has taught me more about loyalty, strength, and what it looks like to show up wholeheartedly day in and day out like those two have. Even though Snow is gone, Bella continues their nighttime tradition, she continues to walk in the steps of a friendship that supersedes death.
My dad came up with this saying around the time we got Snow: “S’no dog left behind,” and it’s true. No matter what happens, the memories I have of Snow and Bella together will fuel me forever. It’s a mantra that reminds me that life goes by in the blink of an eye, so even in those moments when uncertainty and doubt creep in, there is always more love, care, and friendship to be shared and enjoyed.
Bella has long since grown out of preying on my parents and I for sport and now spends her days digging up the backyard to my dad’s chagrin. But when the day is done, she now curls up on Snow’s old blanket; guess my parents and I aren’t the only one who believes S’no dog left behind.
Photo Courtesy of Belén Yudess ’25
