I didn’t go looking for Frank. Not exactly. After losing my last two beloved cats, I swore I was done. No more heartbreak. No more pawprints on my heart. I’d keep things simple. Safe.
Then Frank happened. Long, solid, with citrine eyes that looked like they’d seen every alley, rooftop, and midnight brawl in the city, he showed up in my life. I said yes before I had time to remember my promise to myself.
From the start, it was clear Frank hadn’t read the “How to Be a House Cat” manual. He didn’t purr on command. He didn’t headbutt or curl into my lap. His version of affection was what I now call the “fang tap” — a gentle, deliberate touch of his teeth to my hand or ankle. Never hard enough to hurt. Never on the face. Always on his terms.
I used to think love had to look a certain way: purring in my ear, sprawling across my chest, that deep, rumbling togetherness. But Frank was teaching me a different language — one I didn’t yet understand but was starting to admire.
Frank is not tense, skittish, or hiding in the shadows. Far from it. He’s a relaxed, social fellow, the kind of cat who likes to be in the middle of things — just not on the middle of you. If there’s a gathering, he’s in the room, surveying it like an ambassador. He’s curious, confident, and always positioned so he can see the action without being part of the furniture.
And he has rituals. Each night, while we sleep, Frank delivers toys to our bedroom. We wake to find them scattered around the bed like small, strange offerings — a neon mouse, a crumpled fabric ball, occasionally one of those large catnip kicker toys. In his mind, I think he’s the household provider, making sure we know the hunt went well.
Then there’s his window perch routine. When I come home, he’s there, scanning the street. I’ve been told that the moment he spots me, he perks up and lets out a tiny squeak — an uncontainable, high-pitched She’s here! By the time I open the door, he’s in position like a dignified but delighted doorman.
And sometimes — not always, but often enough to feel like a gift — he lets me brush or stroke him until his eyes grow heavy and his body leans, full weight, into my hand. Watching him relax like that is like watching a fortress not just open the gate, but throw it wide and hang a welcome banner.
Somewhere along the way, “Frank” became “Doodlebug.” I’m not sure when or how it happened — cat nicknames have a way of sneaking in under the radar. I sometimes wonder what he thinks about this indignity. He tolerates it with the same bemused patience he shows most human oddities, which I take as a form of love in itself.
This love didn’t happen in a rush. It arrived slowly, like sunlight creeping across a floor. I didn’t get the cat I thought I’d fall for. I got Frank: the fang-tapping, toy-delivering, window-watching sentinel — Doodlebug, if you’re feeling affectionate — who has made himself an essential part of my daily life.
And now, I can’t imagine loving any other way. Because when a battle-tested cat who’s had to survive on his own decides you’re his person, you realize you’ve been given something rare: trust that can’t be hurried, and a stubborn kind of love that won’t fade.
