Getting a cat was gently prescribed to me by several friends and health care providers as therapeutic for anxious, lonely people. Oh. I was hoping that didn’t show.
Getting a cat reveals I have a soft spot. I feel like I’ve made a public declamation of vulnerability. Now everyone will know I’m not tough.
I clean Helen’s litter box two times per day and keep her matching bowls filled.
Before I got her, I read about ten library books from two different libraries and searched the Internet and studied cat newsletters from universities. I interviewed co-workers, neighbors, friends and strangers at the pet stores. I got a lot of advice. It all boiled down to “It depends on the cat.” Uh-oh. No truth and light about cats. No directions to follow, no rules to obey. Uh-oh.
I think Helen might be a very smart, agile cat. When I woke up Wednesday morning, the kitchen cabinet drawers were ajar and one drawer, heavily laden with silverware, was halfway open. I pasted the doors closed with duct tape left over from hurricane season. Short gray stripes on wood tones. Nice.
While I was drying my hair, I looked down and saw her reaching between my legs for the bathroom cabinet. She batted the door open with her paw, then used her head as a wedge to keep it open. I duct taped those doors closed, too.
My brightly-colored overstuffed chairs look like paisley ghosts in their bed sheets, my Wedgwood vase is locked in the china cabinet, and my feet go rasp-rasp as I traipse through scattered kitty litter. The toy with the ball inside hurt my heel when I stepped on it.
I think Helen is beautiful. I put on stockings and my business suit and spray myself with Shalimar, then squat on the stairs to say good-bye to her when I leave for work. I stroke her long black fur and look into her golden eyes and start to cry.
I don’t understand her. But I want to keep her.
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