My name is Jennifer Morrison.
I live in Chicago with my husband Tom and our 14-year-old calico, Bella.
She's been with me since she was eight weeks old.
She's not just a cat.
She's family.
For months, I'd been finding Bella in dangerous places.
On top of the WiFi router—so hot I couldn't touch it.
Behind the refrigerator where the exhaust vent blows.
Pressed against the baseboard heater.
On my laptop keyboard while I was working.
I kept moving her.
"Bella, no. That's too hot."
But she'd always go back.
Then last Tuesday morning, I was doing laundry.
I pulled the warm towels out of the dryer.
Left them in the basket.
Walked away for maybe 20 minutes to fold clothes in the bedroom.
That's when I heard it.
Meowing.
Faint. Muffled. Panicked.
I ran back to the laundry room and my heart stopped.
Bella was inside the dryer.
Curled in a tight ball.
On top of the warm towels.
The drum still holding heat from the cycle.
And in that moment, my mind flooded with horror:
What if I hadn't heard her?
What if I'd grabbed a wet load from the washer?
What if I'd closed that door and hit start?
I grabbed her, wrapped her in a towel, and sobbed.
Because I finally understood: Bella wasn't misbehaving.
She was so desperately cold that even the risk of being trapped in a running dryer felt worth it.