Part 1
All my life I’ve had pets — dogs, cats, ducks, rabbits, even goats. Home never felt complete without animals. But when I left my hometown to join the Army, everything changed. My life sped up, structured by orders, routines, and duty. My first station was in Yongsan, Seoul, Korea. It was an incredible place — vibrant, loud, and alive — yet I often felt an emptiness I couldn’t explain.
On my days off, I found a way to fill that space. I would walk to the post veterinarian clinic, helping however I could: cleaning cages, feeding, or simply sitting with the animals that needed comfort. Somehow, being surrounded by them made me feel grounded again.
One afternoon, I convinced my boyfriend to come with me. The staff brought out a few dogs and cats, explaining their backgrounds. Then, almost as an afterthought, they mentioned a kitten — only six to eight weeks old — that a soldier had found wandering Itaewon (yes, Hooker Hill of all places!). She wasn’t ready to be shown yet, they said.
But I insisted.
The vet tech finally emerged with the tiny orange kitten in her arms. Dirty, frail, and sad-eyed, she looked like she’d been through too much for such a little creature. The moment our eyes met, she wriggled free and leapt onto me, curling herself against my neck like she’d been waiting all along.
And that was it. She was mine, and I was hers.
I didn’t care about the dirt or the smell. Love at first sight is real — and sometimes it comes with four paws. My boyfriend stood frozen, then teared up. He whispered that he’d never seen anything like it before: how a kitten simply knows her human.
I spent the next two hours at the clinic bathing, drying, and feeding her. But she wasn’t cleared to leave yet. She needed a vet check and observation, so I kissed her tiny forehead, hugged her close, and promised: “I’ll be back tomorrow. Then you’re coming home.”
The next day at work, I stared at the clock like a child waiting for the last school bell. As soon as I was off duty, I sprinted two miles uphill — in combat boots, full uniform, and carrying a cat carrier. I must have looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care.
When I burst into the clinic, the staff laughed with relief. Apparently, the little one had been meowing non-stop, exhausting herself into sleep between cries. The veterinarian gave her a glowing report: healthy, strong-willed, and ready for a forever home. She reminded me to come back in two weeks for vaccines.
For now, the clinic had given her a temporary name: Itaewon. But to me, she was just my kitten.
That night, when I carried her into my tiny studio apartment, she stepped out of the carrier with confidence. First the litter box, then the water bowl, then the food. She tested the toys, climbed the tree, then curled into my lap. Within minutes, we were both fast asleep on the couch.
That was the night I stopped feeling empty in Korea.
To be continued…
