There was a period of my youth in which I wanted to be an actress. Just one of many dream careers I wanted before I hit my teens—along with ballerina, veterinarian, musician, and pilot. Flying was miraculous to me in those days. If I could have sprouted wings and taken off, I would have. But instead, I studied voice and piano and music theory and auditioned for this and that role and posed for the pictures that would eventually go into my portfolio.

The photographer my mother hired to take those pictures, a man whose name I can’t recall for the life of me, was recommended by my agent, and touted as having years of professional experience.

He was a pleasant fellow, and chatted amiably with my mother and me as he told me where to sit or stand or look. In between shots, he confessed that most of his professional work was as an animal photographer—a fact that was instantly exploited by the eight-month-old female kitten my parents had adopted months earlier. Her name was Cleo, and she was all cat—effortlessly sleek, infinitely more poised than I was, and commanding of the room. So, it was inevitable that when he draped a silvery velvet cloth over his camera case, she immediately settled into it.

He had been getting ready to take another shot of me, but when he saw Cleo’s regal pose—her glossy ebony coat against the silver back-drop, her head high, gold eyes bright and intense, as if to say, “I’m ready for my close-up,” he smiled and said, “I’m sorry. I can’t resist,” and aimed his camera at her.

When he delivered the package of proofs for us to go through, he also delivered a box containing Cleo’s portrait, artfully matted and framed. It put every other image he’d caught to shame.

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