Part 2
Bringing my little orange kitten home was one thing. Learning how to live together — in the middle of Army life — was another adventure altogether.
I was still a young soldier in Seoul, balancing duty schedules, field exercises, and the unpredictability of military life. My days often started before dawn and ended late into the night. In between, there was PT, motor pool checks, and the constant hum of responsibility. And yet, every evening when I came back to my small studio apartment, there she was — waiting for me with the same boldness she’d shown the very first day we met.
At first, we had to learn each other’s rhythm. She was curious and fearless, exploring every inch of that little apartment, from the top of the cabinets to the dark corners under the bed. Nothing was safe. My boots became her toys, my uniform sleeves her climbing posts, and my paperwork her personal playground. More than once, I had to explain to my NCO why my neatly typed forms had claw marks across them.
But what amazed me most was how quickly she settled into my life. When I laced up my boots each morning, she would sit at the door, tilting her head as if to ask, “Are you leaving again?” And when I returned, exhausted and sore, she’d climb onto my lap, press her tiny paws against my chest, and purr as if reminding me that the world outside could wait.
She wasn’t just a pet. She was a steady heartbeat in the quiet moments.
Of course, there were funny mishaps. One night, I came home to find the curtain rod lying on the floor — she had apparently tried to climb it like a jungle gym. Another time, she wedged herself into my wall locker and refused to come out until I bribed her with treats. And then there were the “zoomies” — those bursts of energy when she tore through the apartment at full speed, ricocheting off furniture like it was her personal obstacle course.
Through it all, we became a team. She adapted to my long hours, curling up on my pillow when I left and racing to the door when I came back. I adapted to her quirks, making time between shifts to play, to feed, and to simply be present.
It was during this time that her true personality began to shine. She wasn’t fragile, despite how she’d looked the day I first saw her at the vet. She was fierce, playful, and deeply affectionate — a tiny creature with a lion’s heart. And she had already claimed me as her person.
As for her name, I knew Itaewon — the temporary one the vet had given her — didn’t fit. She was more than the place where she had been found. She deserved a name that carried meaning, one that reflected the spirit and joy she had already brought into my life.
I named her Tricky — after the character in Under the Cherry Moon, played by Jerome Benton in Prince’s film. Like her namesake, she was clever, bold, mischievous, and unforgettable.
And just like that, her identity was set. She was Tricky. My Tricky.
To be continued…
