Missy Was My Emotional Support Animal Before I Knew What That Meant

Long before “emotional support animal” became a buzzword, mine was a tuxedo cat named Missy.

My girlfriend at the time, who later became my wife, and I rescued Missy from a woman who was mentally ill and genuinely dangerous to herself and others, including the cat. Taking Missy out of that situation was not complicated for me. Call it a tactical acquisition if you want. I never lost sleep over it.

We already had a boxer mix named Roxy, and from day one the dog and the cat got along. Roxy was a great dog, but she was my wife’s dog. Missy was mine. I have always been a cat person, and Missy bonded to me in a way no animal ever had. She followed me everywhere. If I sat down, she was on my lap. If I was home, she was with me.

By the time Missy came into my life, I was already divorced and a Desert Storm combat veteran. If you were there, the Highway of Death still carries weight. We rolled through it while it was fresh. Fires burned. Smoke choked the air. Dead and dying were everywhere. I drove through that wreckage in a daze and ran completely over a body without realizing it until the truck bumped over it. That moment never really left me.

What haunted me most was not just destroyed military vehicles, but civilian cars. Nice cars. In my head, I saw families fleeing what they thought would be a battlefield. Whether that was true or not almost does not matter. That was the image I carried home.

When I got back, I was angry. Less motivated. My marriage eventually ended. I was trying to learn from mistakes, trying to stay steady, and now I had a woman I loved, a dog, and a cat who just wanted to be held.

Unless she was outside. Outside, Missy was a lion.

I deployed again for Operation Iraqi Freedom. When I came home a year later, Missy was right there. Same cat. Same bond.

Roxy passed in 2015. It hurt, but it made sense. Dogs live twelve to fifteen years. You brace for it. I grieved, but I stayed functional.

Missy made it to 2023. Nineteen years. When she could no longer clean herself, use the litter box, or move without pain, we made the call. At the vet, after saying goodbye, Missy was put down.

That is when I completely lost it.