The first time I truly felt like an adult was when I walked into a furniture store ready to purchase my first couch, which would be put in the apartment I paid for with the full-time job I had. That was the moment I reached a nirvana of sorts and realized that from here on out I was calling the shots. I knew which couch I wanted the minute I saw it: chocolate brown, leather blend, smelled like a law office. Yes.

I flagged a salesman down and ordered it. No, I didn't want the extra warranty even though I had just adopted a cat. He didn't have his front claws anyway, so what harm would he do? The transaction was completed. The delivery date set. I walked out of the store feeling like I'd tackled eight linebackers in a row.

A few weeks later the couch came. It looked great. The cat was scared for awhile and hid under my bed; I napped on my new treasure. It felt wonderful to have virgin furniture. No more futons, no more hand-me-down chairs. No more droopy college stuff loomed here.

One morning I woke up and headed out to inspect the couch, something I'd become accustomed to doing ever since I had found a scratch on a cushion a few weeks earlier, thanks to my cat. It was very tiny, hardly noticeable; yet each morning I nervously approached my prized possession like I was expecting some unsightly ghoul to pop out. And that morning I found it, or rather, them. Puncture marks, bite marks, maybe? All over the middle cushion. All over. There was no flipping the cushion around, no hiding it with pillows this time. My face grew warm. I'm pretty sure I teared up. This couch was not even a month old and it had become my cat's $500 chewtoy. Oh. My. God. I was so livid, I briefly imagined opening the sliding glass door and throwing the cat out of it. He was rubbing up against me as I thought this. That stupid, worthless, destructive animal. Now what was I supposed to do?

I took a breath. I looked at the couch, then the cat, then the couch again. The truth was, I really loved that cat. He greeted me every night when I came home from work. He always rolled over onto his back so I could scratch his belly. And he made it a point to sit on my lap whenever he could. He was a sweet animal, indeed, and he kept me company. And he didn't mean to gnaw on my couch. It was just a couch, after all, and if that was the biggest of my problems then I was probably pretty lucky.

There. That moment of realization, that's where I learned to love, because I learned to forgive. I wasn't going to throw the cat out the window. I was just going to get over it. And I did.

I bought a couch cover from Target. It's not the most attractive thing, but it spares me from having an episode every morning. Honestly, I don't care about the couch anymore. It doesn't purr when I rub behind its ears and it doesn't fall asleep next to my head. I will never have a another cat like him, but I can always get another couch. Stuff isn't what's important. And yeah, it's my fat orange cat that taught me that.