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Bringing an old pet into a new relationship is like blending a new family. Mr. Beef wasn't too keen on moving in with Mike, I thought. She wanted my attention all for her smoosh-faced self.

She's a cream colored Persian, with pedigree papers to prove it, but one look at her concave little nose, and no one would question her bloodline. At her first check-up, the vet drew an outline of cat head and three tiny circles in the center. "This is why she's so gooey all of the time," he poked the paper with his pencil. I nodded. "The nasal passages of Persian cats are set on top of their eyes." Again, I nodded. "Well, it's pretty gross." He said flatly.

The kitty-goo issue is a household problem. It starts building up around her eyes sometime before morning. I wipe a hot soapy towel over her nose and face and it just rubs around like warm molasses. Then there's the gunk on the living room chair, the couch, my clothing, and the white bedspread. Mike had no idea what he was getting into inviting me (and my precious kitty) to come live with him in his Chicago condo. He grew a beard in winter and would wake up with the little furry creature plastered to his face, using his facial hair for a loofa. No one likes a gooey face.

I moved to D.C. without her and had her shipped to me in a cat carrier. At that point I hadn't seen her for several months and I was worried she would be mad at me – or worse, had forgotten who I am. This little ratty cat howled at me through the cage, her pupils were swollen with fear. At home in my tiny studio apartment, she slowly sulked out, hunched and panicked. Her fur was knotted, her claws overgrown, show cat no more. But little by little she reacquainted herself with me. Within a few weeks we were snuggling on my futon. Forgiveness from your pet is one of the most underrated gifts in life.

Mike rescued us from D.C. just in time for the change of summer to fall. We made it to Chicago in one full Nissan, in one full day. It didn't take long for Mike and the kitty to trust one another. They have their morning routine brushing session out on the balcony, which – despite how angry kitty gets – they both secretly enjoy.
"It's a happy brush," he says gently grooming her creamsicle fur, "until it finds a knot. Then it becomes an angry brush." Then he really starts the working the fur. The whole house feels like a snow globe of little peach hairballs.

At bedtime, he'll kick her out to the living room, yet she always ends up right at the end of our bed. And even though she'll come crawling up to him with beads of water still on her beard, meowing and spitting, brown goo and all, he'll snuggle her if I pretend to be asleep.