I Got A Cat? But Did I, Really?
A few weeks ago
Alright, fine, she’s not a kitten. And she’s not mine. She’s a neighbour’s 21-year-old calico cat with a stub tail and a sad look of disdain for life.
But she does have fleas. I know this because I let her jerk and weave her arthritic way into my apartment, after which she stopped every few feet to scratch, bite, and gnaw at herself.
Having not owned a cat since my single-digit childhood years, I didn’t immediately correlate this behaviour as being caused by the wee critters trying to stay alive from the meager meat of this nearly departed cat.
Fortunately, I’d seen her bony body wobbling around the yard like a drunk at dawn and decided to get some wet cat food when I was in town “just in case.”
Earlier
While at the Farm & Feed store with my brother, who was looking for something other than cat food, there it was at the till: wet cat food, and on sale to boot. If that wasn’t a Divine sign I don’t know what is. Clearly, the cat is meant for moi!
When I got home and she was sitting on the bench outside my place, I knew God was giving me a wee gift. Yes, I am aware at this time the cat belongs to the neighbours, but clearly, the neighbours aren’t taking care of her. At least, that’s what I tell myself as I go to retrieve an old sweater for her to lie on.
After which, I go inside to prep some food, leaving my door open. She follows me in.
I love this! I have a cat!
My new old cat
I make her a gourmet meal of soft, past-the-sale date cat food and minced leftover chicken, but only a tablespoon because this animal looks like she hasn’t had a real meal in a while and will probably barf up any excess she scarfs down.
After she eats, and drinks a lot of water, she takes a shaky exploration of my apartment, minus my bedroom and office/workout/sauna room, which I’ve closed the doors to. (Those rooms have newer carpets that would be more difficult to clean sick-cat vomit or poop from.)
I fix up a cardboard box with a small sheepskin for her to sit in while I assemble another as a makeshift litter box. “I knew I should have got kitty litter!”
She sits in the box and kneads the sheepskin, getting her overgrown claws stuck with every biscuit-making move.
I sit on the floor next to her, leaning against a wall wondering how long I’ll get away with kidnapping someone else’s pet.
Seeing her opportunity, she abandons her biscuit-making, exits her new bed, and tries to crawl on my lap, but lacking strength and agility—and without any weight beyond mangy fur and tiny bones, which makes me think of my little mom at the end of her cancer journey amusedly counting the phalanges of her scrawny hand—she tumbles indelicately off my lap.
I put on my fluffy housecoat and try again, gently lifting her into a somewhat comfortable position for both of us. She closes her eyes to rest. Of course, now I’m trapped for eternity. Or until she dies, which looks like it could be any moment.
In my cutest talking-to-an-animal voice, I say, “Don’t die on me, Smittens.”
As I pet her, I feel her body purring silently, not enough energy to make a sound, but enough to let me know she feels safe and loved.
But alas…
I see, as clear as day, a black spec—a flea on my petal pink robe!
I squish it between the beds of my thumbnails and, hearing the distinct pop of its death, am instantly transported back to my childhood. Did my cat, Cornflakes (never let a child name a pet), have fleas?
As much as I believe in “all God’s creatures great and small” I also have some limitations, restrictions, and provisos.
If they’re a predator insect, to my corpus or my cashmere, thou shalt kill.
Mosquitos, moths, silverfish, and yes, fleas, will find themselves visiting the Kingdom of Bug Heaven if they trespass in my home.
Spiders, ants, ladybugs, bees, and other harmless bugs get relocated to the wild to live another day, or hours depending on their natural lifespan.
I reach for my phone and type into the ChatGPI window: Can one flea cause an infestation?
Yes, one flea can lay X eggs…blah blah blah…and cause an infestation.
Motherfu…
“Smittens, out you go.”
I carefully create a carrying basket of my housecoat and contort my way into a standing position, making every effort to not disturb this Trojan Horse cat, then take her back out to the sweater nest I’d made for her earlier.
“Well, I guess I’ll just burn that one later,” I say to myself aloud.
To Smittens who, suddenly agile, is already trying to follow me back inside, “Sorry, kitty, you has fleas. I must loves you from afar. And vacuum stat.”
I go straight to the bathroom, stand inside the shower stall, disrobe, and shake out my hair. After, I close the shower door “I’ll deal with those later”, I grab the vacuum, and, sans clothes, work my way around every inch of my floor sucking up (hopefully) every flea and egg laid.
Naked, sweating, suspiciously itchy, I put the vacuum away, get dressed, and go back outside to sit with my (almost) cat, soothing her with soft-spoken words, scratching her head, and checking my hand for fleas every so often.
So, I had a cat for about 20 minutes. Officially, it’s the shortest relationship I’ve ever had, but just as meaningful as some of them, I assure you.
God hath spoken, “Anna Jorgensen, you are not a Cat Lady.”
“‘Yet,’ Lord, not ‘yet’.”
What have we re-learned? Not a darn thing.
Homework: Laundry¹. Stat.
A week later:
I receive a knock at my door.
When I open it, a familiar-looking lady asks with concern, “Do you have my cat?”
“No,” I say. “Which cat…?”
Before I can finish my sentence she continues with increased distress, “Someone said to check with you. It’s an old cat—“
“Smittens! I love your cat! But she’s not here.” I open my door wide as proof.
She looks disheartened, “She didn’t come home last night. The vet said she’s already lived a couple weeks longer than expected.”
The lady is already on her way to search for her tiny family member as I gently say, “ Sometimes they sneak away when they’re ready…”
There’s no need to finish my thought, she knows what I mean and replies sadly, “Yes.”
That was a couple weeks ago. There’s been no sign of Smittens since. It seems she may have gone to be with the Lord.
He giveth and He taketh away.
Yesterday:
And He giveth again!
I hear meowing. I go to my front door and look out the window in it. An orange kitten appearing to be a few months old looks up at me.
“And who are you?” I say in my it’s-a-cute-animal voice, opening the door.
Word on the street…I am the cat lady.
Not yet, Lord, not yet!
Smittens!
Another neighbour’s cat, Leo. I have renamed him Leonardo DiCatrio.
¹Yes, you can wash sheepskin and suede moccasins (with fur) in the washing machine!
