“Shoo!” I hissed, as the ugliest cat I’d ever seen pranced after me. I was touring the pound, looking for a black or gray cat, or maybe white. Certainly not the little one that looked like a furry ball of black, tan, white, and orange, a tiny head stuck on one end and a bottle-brush tail on the other. Definitely not the cat I wanted.

            The pound lady followed me. “She’s the sweetest little thing. You’ll love her,” she said.

The shabby tabby rubbing against my ankle, purred loudly. Finally  I had stroked or cuddled every cat in the place, except for my parti-colored shadow. The attendant made one last plea. “She really is a very, very nice cat. And she’s reaching the end of her time here.”

            Well, just get it over with. I picked her up. She snuggled under my chin and it was as if our hearts joined.  I had found my cat. She “squeaked” all the way home. No long howls or cute meows for her! What else could I name her but Squeaky?

            Looks had always been important to me. In my teens, I gritted my teeth and wanted to smash the mirror every time I saw my fine, flyaway hair and ten million freckles.

Then in my 20’s, the freckles faded and I learned to style my hair. My figure became svelte instead of stocky, and men started paying attention. But if they didn’t meet my good looks standards, I didn’t bother to look further. The package mattered more than  the contents.

            I married two men, handsome but shallow. Two failed marriages later, I was still looking for Mr. Right—as long as he was tall, dark, and handsome.

            Squeaky became my dating “barometer.” She didn’t care if my dates were George Clooney’s doubles. She’d vanish as soon as a man walked in the door.

            Then I met Rocky. He was 19 years older than I, pudgy, and could have been Rodney Dangerfield’s stand-in. In spite of his missing left forearm, he’d performed as a jazz pianist and vocalist for 40 years, had his own nightclub, recorded for Capital rcords, hung out with Bill “Count” Basie and some of the other jazz-era greats.

            I’ve always loved music, particularly jazz, and American Songbook standards, and Rocky seemed like a really nice guy, so I invited him over for drinks. “My cat is really shy around men, so don’t be surprised if she never appears,” I warned.

            “Good. I’m not a cat lover,” he replied.

            I went to the kitchen to pour drinks, hoping for a pleasant evening or maybe two.  Entering the living room, I almost dropped the glasses. Squeak lay curled up in Rocky’s lap as he stroked her and scratched her chin.

Rocky and I married within a year. We made music together, traveled together, laughed together, enjoyed life together.

Rocky’s heart was as huge as his talent. He enjoyed buying someone’s meal anonymously or picking up the tab for the elderly woman ahead of us at the supermarket.

We mourned together as his family dwindled until he was the last of the generation. We grieved again as Squeaky made her transition. I wept alone as cancer claimed Rocky.

            Even though Squeaky and Rocky are no longer here, I still remember the lesson I almost missed learning: To truly see, one must use the heart instead of the eyes.