I was in a favourite Thamel bookstore, browsing while waiting to meet up with a friend for a meal—I’d arrived a little early—when I heard the unmistakable sound of a cat crying. I followed the noise outside to find a scrawny black kitten laying in a corner by the front of a shop alongside a box of trash. Two young men were eying it from a distance; they told me, without much other context, that he’d been stuck in a room with his mother. Now, he was alone and seemed unable to move.

“Does he belong to anyone? Can I take him?” They said yes, I could have him, and off I went to buy a plastic basket to put him in. Pulling up on the scooter, I took off my shawl to throw over the little cat to catch it, expecting a struggle. But there was none, he just let me pick him up and tuck him safely inside the basket. After securing the lid is probably when I thought What the hell have I done?

**

It was the day after the second earthquake; the previous day, May 12, 2015, I had been on a bus returning from a trip with friends to Okhaldunga where we’d gone to bring relief supplies in the aftermath of the big one on April 25. We were inching along in traffic at the Chabahil intersection when our bus jolted violently; it felt like the driver had jerked the steering wheel as hard as he could, and it took a minute to realize what had happened.

In the weeks after the first earthquake we had sort of gotten accustomed to the aftershocks; there were so many and so frequent. And while this was, technically, an aftershock too, it was large enough to be considered, and referred to, as the “second” earthquake, and despite how used I was to jolts, feeling it inside such a large vehicle was a completely different experience, scary in a whole new way.

**

When I got home later that day, two of my cats bolted out of the house as fast as they could. I would never see them again, but of course I didn’t know that then. As far as I was concerned, when I found the kitten the following day, I had five cats (I know, I know) and a dog. There was no way I was keeping another cat.

At the same time, I couldn’t leave a tiny injured kitten to die crying on the side of the road. I’d figure something out, I told myself, but first off, I needed to do something with the little thing while I met my friend; she wouldn’t mind the cat, I knew, but the meal was a family affair, and I didn’t feel I could turn up to a Newari restaurant with a cat in a basket.

I thought of my friend, S—, who lived in Thamel, and called her, explaining the situation, something like “Could you watch this little injured kitten I found while I go meet these people?” “Of course, I’m at Tom & Jerry’s with E—, bring him over!” So off I drove to the old bar just minutes away. The staff gave me a saucer of milk—we were regulars, then, though not regulars with cats—and I hurried off to keep my appointment. When I came back to get him, S— said that she could give him a home, if I could keep him for just a little while.

So the little black kitty came home with me, and from there to the vet’s, where they checked him out and cleaned him up. They estimated that he was about three-and-a-half months old, with one back leg smashed up quite badly, in what they they told me did not look like an accidental injury. Ten years ago, superstitions were even stronger than they are now, cats were not popular, and he was not only a cat but a black one: a double whammy of sorts.

**

While it was his crying that led me to him, when he got home he was a completely silent kitten. No miaowing—he didn’t even purr for the first three or four days; I remembering wondering if he knew how. He caught on fast, though and eventually, well, one thing lead to another; S— realized that her flat was both too tiny and her work hours too long to care for said kitten, my two that had run away never came home, and the rest of the pack started getting used to him. I still hadn’t named him—naming is akin to keeping, in my opinion—but I eventually realized the inevitability of the situation. The country was upside down, literally and figuratively, people were leaving the country, and there were understandably much bigger problems than rehoming a small black cat.

So he stayed; friends on a Skype call dubbed him Marvin, which became Marv, and the rest, as they say, is history.

**

That was ten years ago, yesterday. Over the years he has learned to miaow (loudly), discovered that he doesn’t need to be terrified of everyone who isn’t me, and generally grown up to be the most cuddly, affectionate cat a soul could ever want. He joined a menagerie but for the last few years it’s been just the two of us, and I’m thankful every day that we found each other like we did.

In honor of the occasion I dug through old hard drives till I found photos from 2015. From first glimpse to first bath (so small in my hand!) to first proper meal… and I’d forgotten how huge his ears were, and intact! When I found him he had a crusty scab on the outer edge of his right ear; as it healed, that tip just… fell off, which I still do not understand; it looks like it’s been clipped. But his leg healed up beautifully, and mobility hasn’t been a problem. His tail still has a little crick in the tip of it where it must have broken, and for years he didn’t like it touched, but it hasn’t bothered him for some time now.

In recent years he’s developed a few ongoing health issues that can’t really be fixed—at least not here, not now—but they can be managed, so that’s what I try to do. Marv brings so much joy and love into my life; I do what I can to make his as comfortable as possible.

And his snuggles are the best.

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