Calliope leans over and takes a lazy stretch, attempting to snatch my leg as I pass by the sofa where she has been napping. The gentle-clawed tug is meant to remind me that when she awakes from a snooze, she would like a snack. She has trained me well with her smiling kitty eyes.

The first kitten that entered my life’s path was a flea-bitten stray that a childhood friend gave to me. My mother took one glance at it and dunked it in the bathroom sink, trying to rid it of the parasites that had infested its fur. I watched with my 4-year-old eyes as the bugs hopped and skipped off the kitten, trying to escape the bath water. Most were flushed away down the drain. Sadly, that was when we discovered I was allergic to cats. I sneezed and sneezed. My eyes turned a scratchy red. “Ready to give up the cat?” my mother would say each day. At last I gave up and said, yes. The kitten was delivered to the A.S.P.C.A.

After that, whenever I visited a home where cats lived my allergy overwhelmed me. In these houses, I would wheeze, gasp for air and then dash for the nearest tissue box. Antihistamine was no help.

Years passed before I would let another kitty enter my heart. Then one morning after church, the minister asked me if I had seen the kittens. There, huddled in a corner of a closet, was a Tuxedo cat. The young cat stared out at me. Behind her was an even more skittish kitten. The four eyes were wide with fear. I was at a loss, having never been closely acquainted with cats. My spouse took charge of the rescue and we began depositing bowls of milk, water and cat food on a daily basis. Gradually they began to greet our arrival.

Another member of the congregation bonded with the kitten and took him home. We took the Mom cat, just long enough to be safely spayed by the vet, I thought. It seemed appropriate to give her a Unitarian Universalist name, since she had sought sanctuary in the church. I gave her the name of Dix, after Dorothea Dix. It wasn’t long. though, before we began calling her Dixie.

For some unidentified reason, my allergic reaction vanished. Inside a comfortable home, Dixie decided that she had never liked the out-of-doors anyway. She made the decision that four, sometimes five, square meals per day was more important than the roaming life. Her favorite snack was little bites from a freshly baked blueberry muffin. I told her all of my secrets and my fears. She comforted me in times of despair, taught me yoga and how to nap well. With time, she learned to curl up on a 2-legged lap, but only when invited. If I scratched her chin, she would close her smiling kitty eyes and grin from ear to ear.