Love Catually
17:25
Like many people, I am guilty of often focusing too much on my failures and overlooking the areas of life in which I have succeeded. Today I am pleased to be writing not about my struggles with overspending or a film that has made me angry, but about a longstanding life goal that I have recently achieved.
I am now the proud owner of a cat.
I have wanted a pet for as long as I can remember. As a child I was denied the opportunity to own a dog or cat due to my father's allergy to animal fur, and this loss has left an emotional scar on me that has followed me into adulthood and that I am convinced is responsible for my semi-obsessive love of small, furry creatures. In recent years it has been medically proven that my father is not actually allergic to cat fur, only dogs, but that's absolutely fine and I'm not bitter about it at all.
My parents, desperate to make up for the trauma caused by this affliction, bought my sister and me every pet-related toy we demanded, and we grew up when TV advertising was king so there were a lot of them. From animal-shaped soft toys to computer games that simulated dog ownership to that demonic staple of the late nineties, the Furby – if it vaguely resembled a pet but wasn't really a pet we had it. I remember being delighted one Christmas to receive Teksta the Robotic Puppy, a fake and, I now realise, terrifying dog that walked and barked and provided my sister and me with a good two weeks of pseudo-canine entertainment before we got bored and it went into the cupboard for the rest of eternity.
As well as a steady stream of electronic dog and cat substitutes, we also had a number of fish, varying in species and longevity. Though I appreciated the sentiment, these did not provide me with the emotional stimulation that I was hoping for. While I don't wish to undermine the existence or fish or the importance of keeping them healthy and happy while they're in your care, in real terms they function as more of a high-maintenance decoration than a pet. The cactus I keep on my desk requires the same amount of attention and provides the same amount of satisfaction. I was also an extremely lazy child and left the bulk of the care to my father (setting up the tank, cleaning the tank, retrieving their corpses when they died, disposing of said corpses correctly etc), so I don't even feel that I gained a sense of responsibility for having them. All in all, I consider my life pet-free.
My parents, desperate to make up for the trauma caused by this affliction, bought my sister and me every pet-related toy we demanded, and we grew up when TV advertising was king so there were a lot of them. From animal-shaped soft toys to computer games that simulated dog ownership to that demonic staple of the late nineties, the Furby – if it vaguely resembled a pet but wasn't really a pet we had it. I remember being delighted one Christmas to receive Teksta the Robotic Puppy, a fake and, I now realise, terrifying dog that walked and barked and provided my sister and me with a good two weeks of pseudo-canine entertainment before we got bored and it went into the cupboard for the rest of eternity.
As well as a steady stream of electronic dog and cat substitutes, we also had a number of fish, varying in species and longevity. Though I appreciated the sentiment, these did not provide me with the emotional stimulation that I was hoping for. While I don't wish to undermine the existence or fish or the importance of keeping them healthy and happy while they're in your care, in real terms they function as more of a high-maintenance decoration than a pet. The cactus I keep on my desk requires the same amount of attention and provides the same amount of satisfaction. I was also an extremely lazy child and left the bulk of the care to my father (setting up the tank, cleaning the tank, retrieving their corpses when they died, disposing of said corpses correctly etc), so I don't even feel that I gained a sense of responsibility for having them. All in all, I consider my life pet-free.
For around six months last year I shared a house with a big, fluffy tomcat named Gizmo. Gizmo and I had the kind of relationship typically experienced between human and cat, in that I doted on him with the love one would usually reserve for one's biological offspring and he just about tolerated me as long as I kept his food bowl replenished and never, ever touched his belly.
Despite the fact that he didn't care if I lived or died, I thoroughly enjoyed living with Gizmo. He made me understand why people have children, which is a concept I struggled with for quite a long time. For me, a child was a drain on time, resources, and money, a dependent creature that takes and doesn't give back, and I could not understand why people had them if not for social pressure and bragging rights. I then realised that pets also require time, money, and care – and they won't even take care of you when you're elderly or get into Cambridge. I gain nothing quantifiable from having a cat in the house, but I'm willing to do it because I just like having one around, which is, I now understand, how normal people feel about their kids.
Gizmo is a great cat, and I knew I was going to miss him when I left, so when my new housemate suggested we adopt a rescue I was very keen indeed. The whole process was very straightforward, and within a month of us moving in a chubby-cheeked, fluffy little tortoiseshell had arrived to join us. She spent her first day in her new home sitting at the top of the stairs, and no amount of food or pieces of string could coax her away. The only time she moved was to dart under my bed and refuse to come out for about thirty minutes. Reluctant to let her stay in my room in case she defecated in it or ate one of my earrings, I left her to settle in on her own terms. She's been here for three weeks now, and she's already established where the warmest spots in the house are, worked out where eating and other bodily functions take place, and chosen her favourite housemate (sadly not me).
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| He even occasionally deigned to take a selfie with me, although he made his displeasure abundantly clear. |
Gizmo is a great cat, and I knew I was going to miss him when I left, so when my new housemate suggested we adopt a rescue I was very keen indeed. The whole process was very straightforward, and within a month of us moving in a chubby-cheeked, fluffy little tortoiseshell had arrived to join us. She spent her first day in her new home sitting at the top of the stairs, and no amount of food or pieces of string could coax her away. The only time she moved was to dart under my bed and refuse to come out for about thirty minutes. Reluctant to let her stay in my room in case she defecated in it or ate one of my earrings, I left her to settle in on her own terms. She's been here for three weeks now, and she's already established where the warmest spots in the house are, worked out where eating and other bodily functions take place, and chosen her favourite housemate (sadly not me).
Naming a cat is a surprisingly difficult process. I used to hear stories of people who picked out their children's names in advance and then changed their minds upon the infant's birth because 'he just doesn't look like a Henry', and wonder how something can 'look like' its name. Having had to go through a week of referring to the cat as Notorious CAT because we couldn't settle on a name that suited her, I now understand these people completely. I had decided in advance that I was going to push for naming the cat Edith – short for Edith Clawton, because cat puns are one of my main skills – but the more time I spent with her the more I realised that she just wasn't an Edith. A few suggestions were thrown around, and after over a week we eventually settled on Coco. There was no reason to it, no justification, no amusing historical or cultural pun. She just looked like a Coco. Maybe it's because she's the colour of a Mars Bar. Maybe it's because I was suffering from PMT when we got her. We shall never know.
Fortunately for us, Coco happens to be an exceptionally affectionate cat. I've long felt that the indifference and selfishness of cats makes up a large part of their appeal, but having a creature in the house that loves you and wants to cuddle you is also very pleasant. Her favourite place is under my housemate's bed, but if alerted to my presence she will come out and snuggle up to me, purring so loudly it sounds almost like a small, snorting pig, and even getting up on her hind legs to nuzzle my face. This would be a lot more pleasant if she didn't have a frequent habit of dribbling, which I didn't realise cats did and is probably my main criticism of her. However, an occasional splattering of cat drool is, in my view, a fair price to pay for the love of a cat.
I consider a mark of successful ageing a feeling of increased confidence in oneself as time progresses, a sense of becoming the person that one is supposed to be. I didn't predict that I would be a pet-owner at this stage of my life, and it has brought me even more happiness than I expected. Coco has shown me a capacity for love within me that I did not know I possessed, as well as providing a squeaky, furry companion for the cold winter nights and a (fairly) willing model for my Instagram account. As I slide steadily further into adulthood, I edge closer to the stereotype of the 'crazy cat lady' that my friends have been teasing me about becoming for years. I thought I would want to resist such a label, but now it is a reality rather than a threat it feels like a thick, warm blanket, something to wrap around myself and nestle into rather than to pull away from. Having a cat makes me happy, and until I become one of those people who sets up a Facebook page for their pet – and if you are one of those people then please click away as I am not blessed with enough eloquence to adequately explain to you how unacceptable your behaviour is – I'm going to continue as I am. Apologies for all the photos.
Fortunately for us, Coco happens to be an exceptionally affectionate cat. I've long felt that the indifference and selfishness of cats makes up a large part of their appeal, but having a creature in the house that loves you and wants to cuddle you is also very pleasant. Her favourite place is under my housemate's bed, but if alerted to my presence she will come out and snuggle up to me, purring so loudly it sounds almost like a small, snorting pig, and even getting up on her hind legs to nuzzle my face. This would be a lot more pleasant if she didn't have a frequent habit of dribbling, which I didn't realise cats did and is probably my main criticism of her. However, an occasional splattering of cat drool is, in my view, a fair price to pay for the love of a cat.
I consider a mark of successful ageing a feeling of increased confidence in oneself as time progresses, a sense of becoming the person that one is supposed to be. I didn't predict that I would be a pet-owner at this stage of my life, and it has brought me even more happiness than I expected. Coco has shown me a capacity for love within me that I did not know I possessed, as well as providing a squeaky, furry companion for the cold winter nights and a (fairly) willing model for my Instagram account. As I slide steadily further into adulthood, I edge closer to the stereotype of the 'crazy cat lady' that my friends have been teasing me about becoming for years. I thought I would want to resist such a label, but now it is a reality rather than a threat it feels like a thick, warm blanket, something to wrap around myself and nestle into rather than to pull away from. Having a cat makes me happy, and until I become one of those people who sets up a Facebook page for their pet – and if you are one of those people then please click away as I am not blessed with enough eloquence to adequately explain to you how unacceptable your behaviour is – I'm going to continue as I am. Apologies for all the photos.
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