The Worst Combinations

Is there any worse combination for the future than being a cat lady who happens to also be a writer? I'm convinced that the only other possible way I could deteriorate my future any further is to be both of those things plus a hockey fan ... and it just so happens that I am a hockey fan.

I never saw myself as that crazy cat lady who sat on the porch at eighty years old, a gaggle of cats swarming her feet as she uttered obscenties at the children who dared step foot in her yard. Fortunately I'm a long ways off from eighty and it's winter here so no porch sitting yet. On the other hand, I've found myself becoming rather enamored with our adopted cat, Abbey.

Mid September of 2009, my long time companion and absolute spoiled baby, Jasper, had to be put to sleep from old age. Don't worry. He was a lab, not a person. It hurt just the same. I'd had him for many years and he was a part of our family. So I didn't want another pet, especially a dog, but when you have children, you find yourself making concessions you probably wouldn't otherwise. So I told Christian he could have a cat and because the Animal Control people were so helpful, patient, and accommodating I decided we would adopt from them.

So we took Christian to the shelter and let him pick out a cat. Baxter was a great cat. He was an orange tabby or whatever it is you call those old tomcats. Anyways, the problem was he was already over a year old by the time he was neutered. So we take him home and within a day he sprayed the house, marking his territory with steel melting urine. I pack him up, take him back to the shelter and see if I can make a trade in. I know it's terrible. All animals deserve a loving home, but I just don't have the patience or time to teach a grown male cat that as the only pet in the house, he doesn't have to mark his territory.

So I peruse the shelter, take cats out of their cages, see which ones are friendly, avoid the male cats, and find this quiet little cat peeking at me from behind bars as if she is on death row. Those puppydog eyes of hers, or rather kittycat eyes, are bright and friendly. When I look at her, I think she's kinda homely looking, which leads me to believe she probably needs a good home. Because as we all know, it's easy for the pretty ones get adopted. I take her out of her cage and hold her. She curls her little head on my shoulder and purrs gently and I know right away that she is the one for our family.

Get the paperwork taken care of, her microchip in, all her shots up to date, and I'm heading out the door with the next newest edition to our family hoping that she's not one of the rare 7% of female cats with a pension for marking their territory. I get her home, out of her carrier, and start refilling water and food bowls. She seems content enough, familiarizing herself with the lay of the new land and once I break out my secret weapon, wet canned food, she makes herself right at home.

Long story right? Well, I wanted to share my adventure and my deep RESPECT, APPRECIATION, and LOVE for our local Animal Control people, who provide great care to abandoned and stray animals for as long as it takes to find them a home, provided they are placeable.

And it also takes me full circle to what I was saying in the beginning. I was never a cat person. I loved the companionship of dogs because they make friends. Cats just have servants. They aren't as social as dogs, at least not in my experiences. Yet I find myself grateful to have this chance to give Abbey a home within our family. She is very loving, very playful, and laid back. Right now as I type this she is laying between me and the keyboard, very much in control of her environment the way a cat should be, but also a close friend, the way dogs usually are.

Which brings me to the whole point of this entire post; this evening, after Christian had gone to bed and I was hoping the Penguins would quiet the Capital fans with a win, Abbey was sprawled across my lap as I yelled at the television, the referees, the players and the announcers. So I may not be the crazy cat lady writer on the porch with arthritic fingers yelling obsceneties at the local children, but I am that crazy cat lady writer yelling a mother's version of obsceneties at the televised hockey game.

Writers are, by an ofen true stereotype, lonely people. The craft almost beckons it. Crazy cat ladies are often lonely too, hence the reason they begin to hoarde cats or hurl them like the crazy cat lady from the Simpsons. My future is totally looking bright.