My parents owned two cats before I was born. Their names were Baby and Jeong. They lived long enough for me to remember them, but not long enough to love them. Love for my cats would be learned later in life.

I remember little of Baby, but Jeong, our black cat, spent considerably more time in my life. He died around the time I was in middle school. I didn’t feel any emotion over losing him, which still makes me feel bad.

Around the time I started attending high school, my parents told me that a friend’s cat had just given birth to a litter of kittens. This friend was looking to give the kittens away and we were given a pair of orange brothers. My brother came up with their names: Crash and Eddie, after the possums in “Ice Age.”

These two have kept our home interesting in the years since we took them in. They grew overweight, and while they are now healthy, they are terribly gluttonous. They love to play, mostly with me, and often get into trouble. Half the house is usually forbidden to them without supervision because they will always find a way to break something.

A couple of weeks ago, I drove home for the first time since the semester began. Crash was clearly excited about this because he wouldn’t stop rubbing up against me, meowing when I wouldn’t give him attention, and rolling onto his back when I did.

Recently, it occurred to me that I cannot remember a time when Jeong rubbed up against my leg, or rolled on his back when I pet him, or played with me in any way. In fact, petting him was often difficult, because he would constantly run away from me.

I was a bit of a menace toward animals as a child, and Jeong was the animal I was around the most. Like the birds and the rabbits I saw outside, I would chase him around, wanting to pet him without understanding how much the chasing frightened him. Eventually, it became a game for me, and Jeong would spend half the day under my parents’ bed to escape me.

I doubt Jeong loved me; I had given him more terror than affection. When Crash and Eddie were being adopted, I was still thinking about how little I had cared in return when Jeong had been put down, because I thought that I should feel something; my pet had died, after all.

Driven by this thought, I tried harder with Crash and Eddie, and my family seemed to agree. Our early decision to not declaw them was unanimous, they were given toys Jeong and Baby never had, and we took off their collars because they were clearly uncomfortable. For a long time, I’ve wanted to let them go outside, even just to wander our backyard or go on a walk, though my parents have never done anything to address this.

Crash and Eddie annoy me constantly; they keep trying to scratch things they shouldn’t, they constantly demand food and attention, and breaking up fights between them without getting scratched usually involves chasing them with a pillow.

Still, I miss them while I study at college, and I know that it will be a sad day when they don’t have the energy to play anymore.

When the day came that Jeong stopped running from me because he couldn’t do it any longer, I didn’t notice until my mom told me, and even then I only felt mild concern.

When I am home alone with Crash and Eddie, they caterwaul and roughhouse because they are bored and want someone from my family to be around, if only to give them company. I can’t always give them what they want, but I do sympathize with them regardless.

I don’t think I would have treated Jeong any better if I had been a little older and he had been introduced to me as a kitten; at the time, I simply didn’t understand how to empathize with anyone.

So if there is any reason for me to feel grateful for Crash and Eddie, it is for how they helped me learn to care about someone else, even a cat.