Larry, the neighbor’s cat, has become my unexpected best friend. The meow mix and occasional slices of salami probably help. There’s something oddly comforting about the sound of his crunching, like someone who hasn’t eaten in days. Larry understands what it means to go hungry.

He’s a tan-gray, short-haired cat with striking green eyes and bold black stripes that resemble zebra markings. His paws are adorned with black “socks.” A small cat, no more than eight pounds, his owner, Josh, affectionately calls him “Little Man.” When I first met Larry, he looked like a grunge rocker waking up from a long night—tufts of fur sticking up in every direction. His cries for help were relentless and almost painful to hear, like the screech of a distorted guitar. I was convinced he was a starving stray female. I was wrong on both counts.

A year before meeting Larry, I visited the Uncommon Market in the RAD on a Sunday morning, browsing the outdoor booths. Those were simpler times, and I hope they return someday. At one of the stalls, I found a small 5×7 oil painting with a red background. The painting featured a gray tabby with black stripes and luminous green eyes that seemed to hold a world of wisdom.

I’ve always been more of a dog person, but something about this cat’s gaze captivated me. Those emerald eyes—green as the seas that swallowed Atlantis—seemed to whisper of perfect balance and ancient knowledge. I bought the painting, and it now hangs in the top right-hand corner of the knotty pine archway in my living room. You can’t miss it when you walk through the front door.

My neighbor Emmie was the first to point out the resemblance between the cat in the painting and Larry. She joked that the cat had been “called here,” as if Larry were a sigil, a magical sign from beyond the veil.

At first, I thought Larry was a stray. But thanks to my ever-reliable neighbors AJ and Emmie, I learned otherwise. They believed he belonged to our new neighbors, Marcy and Josh, who had moved in a month earlier down the street. They were right. One day, I carried Larry in my arms to their house to confirm it and introduce myself.

Josh explained that Larry was a rescue cat they had adopted five years earlier. Apparently, Larry had a penchant for “double-dipping,” making his rounds to neighbors for extra meals. He’s a survivor, skilled in the art of getting by, no matter the circumstances.

Larry doesn’t judge himself or dwell on guilt. He lives in the moment, trusting his instincts and moving in harmony with life. He’s fully present and unashamed of his own power. There’s a boundless wisdom in his resilience, a strength that comes from within. Larry doesn’t fight against life—he flows with it.

However, not everyone shares my admiration for Larry’s “wild side.” Josh knocked on my door recently to politely ask that I stop encouraging Larry’s visits. Apparently, I’m not the best influence. They didn’t have to say it outright; it was clear from Larry’s behavior.

You see, Larry had developed a habit of decapitating bunnies and even chowing down on doves. I was horrified when I first witnessed it and pleaded with him: “Larry, what’s the deal? You’ve got plenty of food. Just tell me what you need, and I’ll run to Ingles and get it for you!”

The little girls across the street were heartbroken by Larry’s carnage. To them, it seemed senseless. But to Larry—and to nature—it was simply life. A wizened “Granny Gertz” (as Larry might call me) is beginning to understand what Larry already knows: light and dark both have their place. Sometimes you purr; sometimes you scratch. True resilience lies in embracing the dualities of life.

Larry, a graduate of the school of hard knocks, embodies the wisdom of an unlikely mystic—Rocky Balboa:

“The world ain’t all sunshine and rainbows. It’ll beat you to your knees and keep you there if you let it. But it ain’t about how hard you hit. It’s about how hard you can get hit and keep moving forward.”

Larry lives unafraid, in flow with nature, trusting his own strength. Perhaps we could all learn a little from him.