Emily & Rayla

When I woke up in June 2021, with the nagging feeling it was time to get a cat, the only word to describe it was abrupt. I had never owned a cat. I had not thought of even owning a cat. But as I looked around the apartment that I lived in alone, in the early days of the worst part of the COVID-19 pandemic here in Sydney, I could see it. A home for a cat, perhaps in their twilight years, who needed somewhere safe to see out their days.

At first, I tried to disregard it. Who was I to have a cat? But a conversation with a friend later that day sparked my curiosity; she too had woken up with the nagging feeling she would like a cat. This wasn't on the radar for either of us – but it was too coincidental for us both to ignore.

In the days that followed, I prepared for some kind of intervention, but my email to the real estate agent to seek approval for a cat on the condition it was spayed and kept indoors was quickly accepted. The feeling shifted into a calling. All that was left to find my new housemate.

In my mind, I would be adopting a senior cat with a few years left who just needed a home. Low maintenance, very chill, would like apartment life. For days I trawled through listings, but no one clicked. And then I saw her: an 11-month-old kitten in foster care named Charm, waiting for her forever home. Long black fur, stunning amber eyes and a look that told me her name should be Rayla – and that she was meant to be mine.

In my Zoom meeting with her foster parents, she was all over the laptop. It turned out this fur baby was a screen baby, fond of playing on electronic devices and performing for the camera. I was sold. And a week later, she came home.

When I arrived to collect her, I was warned she refused to enter any carrier except the one she was in. She was cranky, shy and overwhelmed, and took a while to adapt to new spaces. I was told to expect it would be a week before she emerged to see me.

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I put her carrier down beside me while I played video games, in no rush for her to come to me. That night she woke me at 3am demanding food – a yapper, it turned out, and a half. Within a week, she was sleeping on the bed. She took to the name Rayla instantly. Days later, Sydney went into lockdown, and for three months, it was just the two of us. I realised, within days, that I didn't want kids. This cat was my baby, and I would do anything for her.

Our lives became games with ping pong balls and boxes, TV on the couch and each of us with our respective laptops while I worked from home. She was my lifeline during isolation – always in the sun, loving salmon sashimi, and playing games on my iPad. We were inseparable. It became apparent quickly that this was a Velcro cat, not an independent one. She lived in my arms. And eventually we adopted Tulley to keep her company when I wasn't home.

When I had COVID in 2022, Mum joked that she wished Rayla could answer the phone – she knew Rayla would have been nursing me if she could. A few years later, it was Rayla who needed nursing.

In 2025, on the anniversary of her adoption, I found out she had been born with malformed kidneys. We’d have weeks left till they failed. The vision I'd had when I first adopted her felt like a prophecy come true.

I had lost two people I loved in the eighteen months before her, including my nan, who had spent six months in hospice waiting to die. I couldn't watch Rayla go that way too. So, I shifted into hospice mode myself for weeks – giving her meds, her IV bags, whatever it took to keep her comfortable until I knew it was time to let her go. It was a no-brainer. The moment she struggled to stand, I had her at the vet within 48 hours to say goodbye. I was not going to let her leave this earth in pain. Tulley howled that night. She had lost her companion just as much as I had, but now it was the two of us. And she was here because I'd had my Rayla.

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I lost Rayla in September that year; it would be the same week as what would turn out to be my last period in this lifetime. By 2026, I had a diagnosis: Premature Ovarian Insufficiency. I would never have children, even if I'd wanted them. And because of Rayla, I already knew I didn't. The irony was not lost on me.

On the day she was going, I lay next to her and drew what came to me – a prayer and an image. Tell me she'll be okay, tell me there'll be paradise in the light. The image was an island: purpley-pink cliffs, deep green vines, dark blue water. Not tropical, just specific.

Two days later, I went to get her photo printed. Each attempt a misprint – somehow a double exposure layered over hers, a different one each time. Each one showed an island. And the colours matched my drawing exactly.

It felt like she needed me to know I'd made the right choice. That she was okay.

Rayla had expanded my heart and broken it. She had come along to help me close a door. So, when it was sealed shut, I was ready.

In January 2026, in the room where we'd said goodbye, the next story began with Lila, another rescue who needed a home. And that's when I knew Rayla's legacy had been one of love and sharing space.

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Emily is a Sydney-based creative working out how she wants to contribute to the world, with a habit of strange, meaningful coincidences finding her along the way. She shares her home with her cats, Tulley and Lila.