Strange Bedfellows

The first time, it was an accident.

Since my early teens, my primary goal of adulthood was to have and support a dog of my own. I had grown up around dogs and proud, self-proclaimed Dog People. My uncles were hunters who kept un-neutered, outdoorsy labradors, who we considered “a bit excitable” when they humped my grandma’s antique furniture and laid waste to the yearly Christmas tree with one wag of the tail. My parents, on the other hand, were partial to softer, fluffier English labradors with champion bloodlines and delicate constitutions. Despite their differences, every one of these boys (and yes, they were all boys) cracked 90 pounds and behaved like the doggiest dogs who ever dogged. Smaller dogs with less doggish dispositions were considered inferior, while anything more petite than a 40-pound spaniel was considered an absolute rodent.

Cats, on the other hand, were rumored to be demonic beasties from the darkest netherworld, so I was surprised to find myself warming to the idea of feline companionship over the course of my first adult decade. Dogs (“real” dogs, anyway) were large, expensive, and needed space to roam. I was a roving twenty-something with no set income or guaranteed dog-friendly housing, and having met a few friends’ cats, I realized that most of them weren’t the ankle-biting miniature demons of childhood lore. If anything, they were just mildly antisocial freeloaders, not unlike the roommates themselves. Still, a cat meant commitment, and commitment made me feel strangely itchy.

And then, Dita happened.

It was mid December, and I was living in a house with my partner and one of our friends. We were all in our early thirties, with reasonable incomes and staggered work schedules, and the logistics of keeping a furry friend had been floated around the fire pit a few times on tipsy Saturday nights. Our rental situation didn’t allow pets, but the idea of a shared cat became a recurring hypothetical, albeit a drunken one. So, when our roommate saw a social media post about a tiny calico kitten found abandoned in the freezing rain, we were well-prepared to rationalize our way into rescuing it. The mutual acquaintance who found it had been threatened with eviction if she kept an animal in the apartment, so unless someone came to get the kitten, she said, it would have to go to animal control first thing the next morning. Therefore, around 10 PM on a Thursday, about a week before Christmas, we suddenly had a secret cat.

Probably temporarily, we said, just until we can find her a permanent home. Just so she doesn’t have to go to animal control.

The first night, she cuddled up under my chin and fell asleep purring with her tiny face on my cheek.

Over the next few months, Dita proved to be effusively affectionate and sociable, while we wondered what the hell to do about her. Our lease still didn’t allow pets, and when questioned we were maintaining various excuses about “cat-sitting emergencies” and other predicaments to excuse the kitten’s presence. Luckily, our landlord didn’t check up on us often, and we started to think we could keep up the ruse indefinitely. Then, word came in early Spring that our house was being sold. We were about to be inundated with landlord visits, repairs, and house showings, all with a very vocal and attention-seeking kitten who wasn’t supposed to exist.

On the first visit, the landlord brought a few workers to look at water damage on the ceiling and talk us through the repair schedule. A few minutes before their arrival, I lured Dita into the most remote bedroom with enough soft bedding, treats, and essentials to keep her occupied. She immediately got cozy on a pillow, and I hoped she wouldn’t be roused by the sound of new voices, presumably attached to new bodies with new hands that weren’t petting her. The walkthrough went fine, the discussion was quick, and everything seemed to be going swimmingly.

The landlord and one of the painters were chatting in the kitchen when I heard the first tiny mew.

No one else seemed to have noticed it. Then, another louder, slightly inquisitive mew. Then a Mew. Then a MEW. I frantically looked around for something to cover the increasing sound of Dita’s outrage. A small stack of bowls and silverware sat next to the sink. I abruptly pushed them into the sink, making as much noise as possible, then turned the faucet on full blast. In my panic, I started doing the dishes. Angry little kitten screams punctuated the air amid clinking and clanking dinnerware, but between the cacophony of sound and my slightly unhinged Big Dishwashing Energy, no one heard the protesting kitten. Finally, the landlord turned to usher the workers out with a few closing words. They were halfway to the door, and I was almost out of dishes, when the landlord remembered another point of business. Back the clean dishes went into the sink. Clinkety-clink clank.

After the landlord left, still none the wiser about our “temporary” kitten, I knew we needed a better plan than compulsive dishwashing. Unfortunately, before we could formulate a more elaborate scheme, the landlord asked to stop by with a potential buyer. My partner had the afternoon off, so I packed him, Dita, and all evidence of Dita’s presence into my hatchback. They drove around the neighborhood for an hour and a half while I facilitated the showing, and we once again managed to conceal the existence of our increasingly permanent little houseguest.

We were saved from further plotting by the quick sale of the house, and we made sure our new spot allowed pets. With that, Dita officially became our cat. It had been obvious for a while, but with our new living circumstances, we could finally be honest about our girl. In addition to the change in housing, though, I also had a change in employment, and our combined schedules no longer allowed for as much time with Dita. Her demeanor turned restless and moody, and drunken hypotheticals around the fire pit drifted toward the possibility of a companion cat.

A month after Dita’s one-year adoption anniversary, I was the one who saw the social media post.

A friend had been minding a colony of feral cats. She was running out of resources to trap and fix them, but in an effort to keep making at least a small dent in overpopulation, she’d set out to collar the most recent litter. While most had been too skittish to catch, one food-motivated little tuxedo boy had wandered happily into the treat-laced trap and quickly taken to the guaranteed feedings and attention of indoor life. Scrolling through social media that Thursday afternoon, I saw a photo of him. Cute cat, I thought as I kept aimlessly perusing.

Then, I went on a bender. Maybe not a proper bender, a “We Lost Uncle Stan for Two Weeks in 1972” bender, but definitely a bit of a weekend jag. I started drinking socially on Thursday night, then kept going Friday, and around noon Saturday I reached the perfect, gin-soaked clarity that sobriety could wait until Monday.

My friend reposted the photo Sunday afternoon.

Looking at the kitten again, I noted that he really was cute. One eye was goopy from an upper respiratory infection, but his other eye looked bright and clever, and his little white mittens were cuddling his trapper’s leg with obvious bonhomie. I saw an appallingly adorable little creature who needed love and medical attention, and possibly a lonely adult cat to show him the ropes. When I expressed interest, I was told that if no one came to get him, he had to go to animal control first thing in the morning. Get the car, I told my partner. We had to go get the cat.

Maybe temporarily, I said. Just so he doesn’t have to go to animal control. But this time, we all knew better.

He was uncomfortable with his new surroundings at first, and the twice-daily eyedrops didn’t endear us to him. He hid under the bed and avoided us at all costs. In the sober light of the week, I was wondering if he was going to be a good fit after all. A few nights later, I woke up to him playing in my hair and purring. He was home, and he was about to become Dita’s pesky little brother.

Two months later, I started working from home due to COVID-19, and I learned more about the daily habits of cats than I had ever imagined.

And that’s the story of how I became a Cat Person.

Or perhaps more importantly, the story of how I became the social media manager for two strange and adorable cats, who truly are, most likely, demonic beasties from the darkest netherworld.