Tegan
In February, it will be eight years since we brought Holiday home. In May, it will be eight years for Mickey. In those years, I’ve never written a list of questions about the cats that I longed to know the answers to. Their inner world is not a mystery to me. Their love for us, which is probably something closer to survival attachment, was immediate and uncomplicated.
Both were three months old when we took them between our palms and stared into their eyes, imprinting on them. As kittens, they cried out if they were left in a room alone, and so if we were home, we kept them near. In the early days, when we had to leave the house, we shut them in our walk-in closet, and we’d often find Holiday sleeping in our underwear drawer when we returned. Cats can sleep 19 hours a day, happily. When the front door closes behind us, I don’t imagine them whimpering or worried, wondering if we will ever return. Yes, on occasion when Stacy departs for the grocery store or Pilates, Mickey howls at the door. He also does that at 4:30 AM, when he wants me to come downstairs and feed him. Is he suffering terribly when I place a pillow over my head and ignore him? No. I apply the same logic when he sits at the window wailing as Stacy walks to the car.
The hand wringing we do about the cats when we are gone for long stretches of time has little to do with their mental health. It is our attachment to them that distresses us. The desire to stare into Holiday’s eyes feels unlike any connection I’ve had with another being, save for the brief, urgent months that followed one of my first love affairs. She is looking at me thinking of nothing but me. What often seems to perturb dog people about cats, is their fickle, fair weather love, but the unpredictable pattern of a cat’s desire is a fine balance.
They are habitual, and territorial, which are two ways I’d describe myself, and so, I find caring for them instinctive. I’ve never owned a dog, so perhaps it is common to long for answers to so many questions — the way a new parent longs for their child to learn and share a common language with them. Is the simplicity of my relationship to Holiday and Mickey underselling the complexity I feel about their existence in my life? I hope not. I was content before they came into my world, but the before seems dimmer and less important than the life that came after. That feels overwrought, and yet, it’s not an exaggeration.
The knowledge and training you’ve acquired to parent Georgia is on a constant loop in your mind, and it’s distorted the way you imagine others experience you. It must feel like every walk and interaction with strangers is under a magnifying glass. To trust others to care for her seems especially challenging, and requires a network of carefully vetted professionals. It is a relief that our cats are less like small children, and more like teenagers in need of light supervision.
I find it amusing to imagine Holiday and Mickey out with me in public, like a children’s story book, where a cat takes a plane ride, visits a beach, and eats sushi in Tokyo. I don’t want the cats to be world travelers; I don’t even like taking them to the vet. When people visit our home, I worry about cat hair on black pants. I watch the gap in the door nervously, anxious Mickey will dart for the street. It’s adorable, but mildly embarrassing, when Holiday stares at our guests when they sit in her chair. Cats on tables, counters, or laps is frowned upon, and yet, if you are a visitor to our home, tough shit.
Sara
Share this post