Something Fabulous shares her kitties and their story with us.
There is something to be said, another time perhaps, about a feminist critique of pet ownership: Why is it “Cat Lady,” never “Cat Dude”? Why is there no similar snide pejorative about dog people? How many cats do you need, actually, before you get the title? Briefly, the answers are:
- society still frowns less on men being single and childless;
- it is much easier, logistically, to hoard, say, 45 cats than dogs in an apartment; and:
- 3 cats
So, here I am, a formerly proudly dog-only person, and my two cats: Meet Milo and Gigi.
Milo and his brother Oliver had just been returned to the rescue where I volunteer. Oliver, a tabby, was friendly and flirty, literally put his paw out between the bars of the cage to pet me. And when I sat down and opened the door, he came right out and sat on my lap. I was Chosen.
But he was a bonded pair with his very handsome but extremely shy brother Milo. And I had not been in the market for one cat, let alone two. So I went home to think about it, to talk with my landlady about making an exception to the no-pets lease, see if this could be a thing.
Two mornings later, the director of the rescue called me in tears. Oliver had died in his cage overnight. Ultimately the vet looked at his records and noted he’d had a chronic kidney disease and decided he’d likely died of it, exacerbated by all the changes and stress he’d gone through.
I took Milo home that day. Landlady, schmandlady.
Later, our director told me how black cats, shy cats especially, are the hardest to place. She was sure Oliver hung on long enough to find Milo his new home. I, who never cry, and don’t believe in spiritual hoo-ha; wept and wept.
We went on happily for a few years. I would occasionally foster a kitten or 2 (or 4). Keep ‘em in the bathtub, train ‘em up, and send them on their way.