The voice continued: "She's fourteen years old, she's fat, and she doesn't like people...well, we're assuming she doesn't like people since she tries to bite everyone. Ummm....so do you want her? By the way, her name is Big Bertha."

A tempting offer, right? Ha ha. It sounded like Big Bertha had run out of time and options...but I thought as I tapped my fingers on the desk, well-l-l, it wouldn't hurt to look...even though I already had three cats and a husband at home.

When I first saw Big Bertha, she was trying desperately to make herself invisible at the back of her kennel--not a small feat for a 20-pound tabby. Then, quite to my surprise, after staring at me for a few moments with large, emerald green eyes, Big Bertha walked right up to me and let me pick her up. She nuzzled her face into my neck and started purring. Clearly she saw what I had failed to see in nearly 40 years of living...the big "SUCKER" tattoo on my forehead.

Working at a veterinary hospital as a grief counselor, I thought Big Bertha might do well living in my office. The truth is that I knew that if I suggested bringing this less-than-social feline home, my husband would have me declared legally insane.

As I introduced Big Bertha to her new home, I also changed her name to Miss Gertie--a tribute to my German heritage and a symbol of her new beginning.

We quickly adjusted to each other's schedules. Gertie slept in a basket at my feet--with snores that rivaled a chainsaw. And I took comfort in sharing my workspace with this generously proportioned creature that adored me--and only me. Little did I know that I would have the chance to save Gertie's life twice in as many days.

On day two of our trial adoption, Gertie, who had been sleeping soundly at my feet, began wheezing and gasping for air. The chief of critical care services, Dr. Shane Bateman, who I called immediately, advised me to rush Gertie to the Intensive Care Unit of our hospital--a flight of stairs away from my office. The short walk felt like an eternity.

As I observed the team of specialists working to save Gertie's life, I wasn't certain how I should be feeling. I was numb. I wondered, would I grieve if she dies?

A blockage in her throat was severe, so an emergency tracheotomy was performed to create a much-needed airway for Gertie to breathe. Shortly I was told Gertie would survive. At that moment I felt tension ease from my body and breath return to my lungs.

The veterinarians said Gertie had likely suffered from some type of allergic reaction and would need to remain in the ICU for a few days for observation and recovery. When I received a call from the ICU staff approximately 12 hours later, I braced myself for bad news. "Miss Gertie is recovering quite nicely. So well, in fact, that we are wondering if you could take her back to your office and let her recuperate there? Ummm...the truth is, Gertie is biting everyone again and we think her recovery may go better if she is with you."

Suddenly I knew, for who knows why, Gertie had chosen me to be her special someone. And just as quickly, I recognized that I had fallen in love with this grumpy lump of fur that wanted nothing more than to eat and sleep and snuggle with me.

When I picked Gertie up to take her back to my office, she once again nuzzled her face into my neck and began her symphony of purrs. Never has music sounded so sweet.   --By Jennifer Brandt, PhD.

Editor's Note: Dr. Jennifer Brandt is Coordinator of the "Honoring the Bond" program at The Ohio State College of Veterinary Medicine. Her subjects include "Pet Loss: The special grief of children; Coping with the death of a pet; Guiding clients through difficult decisions; Pet euthanasia)." She lecturers across the U.S. to pet-owner groups and veterinary professionals.