Kitty Boy

My friend, Shirley, excitedly told me today that she just picked out a cat at the local humane society and will be taking him home after he is neutered. She was thrilled.
I remember when I was first teaching, Shirley moved in with me to go to graduate school at my university. She had never had a cat and I had Zita--a black beauty with green eyes. Zita was 10 years old and very devoted to me. I could talk to her in a squealy voice and she would flop over on her back and look up at me, begging to have her tummy scratched.

Shirley was taken with Zita. She watched me talk with her, call to her, sleep with her, feed her, cut her claws, and last but not least, be her cat mom. She told me once that I was the one who taught her how to take care of a cat since she just had no idea of what was possible.

So when Shirley and I went to get a litter box and cat food today, while her little cat was in surgery, I felt a bit like an auntie or something, helping her select what she needed for her upcoming cat-motherhood. By looking on the website at the humane society, I think the buff colored cat at the beginning of this entry is said cat baby.

It is hard for many people to understand what having a cat means to single women--or particularly women like me, who have never had the privilege of having babies. We talk to them, explaining all the reasons why we must not have them fishing in the toilet bowl or climbing the Christmas tree. They look at us soberly and then do whatever they jolly well please. But they sleep with us--up against us in beds that are often too small for the both of us--and they choose the place that suits them best--not us: between our legs, under our chin, or inside the covers, occasionally kneading against parts of us that are not claw-proof. Their sunny little faces are full of mischief and at other times, sublimely content.

Zita used to hide in the shower behind the curtain and once I was occupied with shall we say, serious business, she would burst through the curtains, bounce off the wall about knee high, and fly out the door with her back in a frantic S-shape. Then there's Otis, who sat in the bathtub tonight whilst I removed all the caulking with a putty blade. Never mind the flying bits and old caulk. There he sat as pieces whizzed past his head. He occasionally batted a more interesting piece across the tub, but otherwise just sat very close under my arms and looked either at my face or watched the putty knife peeling away old caulk. I just wonder what was going through his little brain.

They're little delights, these cats of ours. I'm so grateful that we are able to enjoy their light heaviness against us, be chased by them, and sleep with them. They make our lives happier just by being their sweet, contrary, and sweet selves.