The Cat Problem.

Agent L fully realizes she is opening herself up to hatemail when she makes the following admission. After all, when she posted on a facebook site that she was looking for a home for the wonderful cat that happened to come with her apartment, and to which she did not feel up to the task of caring for as the cat deserved, someone took offense to it and asked me how I had the gall to ask the cat to move out of the only home it’s ever known. (ahem.) (by the same logic, you who have chillens, if they are at an age where you can’t communicate effectively with them and you find yourself needing to move abroad suddenly, you should leave you kiddo behind and allow the people who next move in next to deal with your kid’s bullshit, lest your child be confused.) Okay. Deep breath. Bring on the judgey.

I do not care for the company of cats. 

Despite having grown up with a minimum of three at all times, (and seriously people- if you get a choice? Petition to come back to earth as one of my nana’s cats. Seriously.) I have apparently never been infected with the taxoplasma parasite- you know, the one that burrows into your brain and makes you love cats, drive worse, and become promiscuous. Don’t ask me- ask scientists. (One out of three does not a diagnosis make, snarks.)

Oh sure- I cried my little eyes out when Bojangles died when I was four. I must have loved that thing. Or it was just the histrionics of youth. Nana always took in strays and we always had them around, but they had each other and were always the perfect kind of aloof. We were there to feed them, and otherwise they left us alone. I remember all six of the times Mr. Molly allowed me to cuddle him. Having lived my entire professional career taking care of people in one way or another, I never understood the allure of coming home to something that immediately needs you to take care of it. I prefer to come home, shuck off my shoes, sprawl across a bed, and think deliciously selfish thoughts. I do not care to have that interrupted by something demanding to be fed, demanding that I remove the poop from wherever it pooped, demanding company. I mean, it’s one thing if one day it’s going to turn into a person. But if not?

I seriously, fundamentally don’t get it.

So those of you who have taxoplasmosis- bring it . You don’t trust people who don’t like cats. I’ve heard that. You don’t like people who don’t like cats. Fine. I don’t like people who make blanket statements about the categories of people they don’t like. Fuck. I just did that myself. Okay, that’s for the therapist. Tell me I’m a terrible person for not loving cats. I’m actually kind of a terrible person in a lot of ways, but not for that reason. I’ve smiled politely through it all. People who don’t like cats have something wrong with them, are untrustworthy, have no heart… deep breath, sigh, do not draw a ridiculous comparison to the McCarthy trials, pet your friend’s cat and pretend to like it, move on.

I am not proud- I do not apologize either.

So being cat tolerant but not a cat lover, I agreed to take on responsibility for the cat that my friends are (tearfully, wtf?) leaving behind, and to care for it well until a loving home can be found, and she can live with someone who will be glad she’s there. I am not malicious, I have a heart, I want the critter to be happy. She didn’t ask to be taken off the streets as a wee thing and made people-dependent, but here she is.

And kiddo’s obnoxious. Kiddo has no redeeming cat qualities whatsoever as far as I’m concerned. She needs quite un-cat-like quantities of affection. She trips you in the hall, seemingly deliberately. She’s at her most active at three in the morning. She has a mouth on her. She has enough kitten in her left to be fairly destructive. Normally I like, for instance, to have my long, tubular cosmetics- the eyeliners and mascaras and brushes- in one of those Ikea metal containers. No go with this one. I’m currently ignoring a huge pile of salt on the floor and spilled catfood in the hall to write this. From my position on the guest bed where I’m sprawled, without turning my head at all I can spot four pieces of furniture that have been damaged.

Fine. I can find some cat loving Cihangirite that will find that endearing.

What my friends failed to mention before they decamped is that they never bothered to fix the cat.

Know what the cat did two nights ago?

She went into fucking heat.

Now, I am a fairly cold woman.

I do not care for the company of cats.

But.

Watching an animal go through this- the complete frustration of a biological imperative- being kept awake by this for several nights- how could you do this to an animal?

And- what do I do now? It’s nearly impossible to give away a cat in Istanbul- walking along the street you trip over cats for the taking.

How, now, do I sell an unfixed kitty, who, in a few weeks, will turn into the same fuck-your-sleep monster she is now?

Am I supposed to pay for surgery in the hopes of finding her a loving home?

Sooo… anyone want a cat? She’s lovely. And she’s probably had her shots.

 

 

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