Happy Caturday: How (Not) to Have a Pet

I adopted Mr. Kitty on a whim with my friend Annie. We had both just uprooted our lives to move to Bellingham with a third friend, Kat; and our brand-new apartment, while symbolic of my first independent(ish) endeavor, was woefully pet-free. Driving down I-5 on one of our many trips between Seattle and Bham that summer, we saw a flashing sign that read "KITTENS! TWO FOR ONE!!!!!" We pulled over without hesitation. When telling this story, we like to say that we found them "on the side of the freeway," but really, N.O.A.H. Animal Shelter just happens to be kind of on the side of the freeway. It's not like they were in an abandoned box on the shoulder or anything.

I knew I wanted a ginger kitten so we would be matching. While all the fuzzy little baby kitties, eyes barely open, were much cuter, the only ginger one available was four months old, and extremely sneezy and snotty-nosed: he had what they called a "kitty cold" (d'awww). I picked him up, showed him to Annie, and said, "He's so ginger. But...his face is kind of ugly, huh?" She agreed. It was kind of ugly. I got him anyway, and I like to think he grew into it.

Try to tell me that face isn't cute as shit. JUST TRY.

Another detail from the above photo that you may or may not have picked up on: Yes, he is trapped inside a laundry basket. He's too big for that game ("") now, but it does illustrate an important point about his up-bringing. The first year of his life was spent in what I can only refer to as chaos, living with three rowdy girls in an apartment that was eventually nicknamed "The Pig Pen." He had a rough childhood, but he came out mostly good-natured and willing to indulge our antics. This included endless pictures, "bath-time," and mostly forcing him to cuddle by wrapping him in things ("Kitty Burrito"). 

Kitty Shirt Burrito!

There were some dark moments amidst so much fun and games. The very first time I took him to the vet, to check up on that "Kitty Cold," he was quaking with what I foolishly assumed was fear. It may have been partly fear; but mostly, I learned, 'twas rage. I took a nap after the appointment, and woke up to find him standing over me, a smirk on his face. He had peed on me. Literally ON ME. He had access to his litter box and he was well-trained; there was no mistaking his intentions. That look on his face very clearly said, "Don't fuck with me, bitch." He won my respect that day, and we've been wary frenemies ever since.

He likes to hide in things for sneak attacks, part of what makes him such a worthy opponent.

Though he's wise enough to realize his bladder's potential for devastation, in most other ways, he is not what you would call a smart cat. He's constantly getting stuck in things and running into doors and walls - the vet tells me this may be because he's cross-eyed and has no depth perception, but I tell her it's just that he gets going really fast and slides on the hardwood and can't stop in time. Who knows what the truth is? Bottom line: It makes for some prime-time entertainment. 

Before we started filming, he had been stuck for about 10 minutes. Isn't that the way it always goes?

I may spend a lot of time goofing around with him and laughing at his bad vision, but I genuinely love this damn cat. Pet-owners everywhere can empathize with the horror of having a run-away animal, and Mr. Kitty has been lost twice. There is no worse (cat-related) feeling than not knowing where the little furball is, picturing him lost and cold and wet and hungry and- OK, I'm getting upset just thinking about it. Obviously, we found him.

The first time, he was gone three whole days. I have no idea how he survived in rainy, wintery Bellingham for all that time, or how he got out at all (he's an indoor cat), or how he found his way back... By the third night, we had almost given up; we'd contacted the right people in Bham, trolled the neighborhood by car and by foot, rattling his food and calling his name...but all seemed lost. Walking in from my car that evening, half-sarcastic and half-desperate, I thought, Might as well try one more time. So I went, "Heeeere, kitty kittyyyy" in that universal come-here-cat coo, and I heard the tiniest imaginable mew from under my car. IT WAS HIM!

The second time he "went missing" for 12 hours, and just as the Oh-God-not-this-again panic was settling in, I heard a scratching from inside my underwear drawer. That's right. 12 hours. In the drawer. No food, no water, no sign of having used it as a litter box. Patient little pervert.

"Who dares to disturb my rest?"

Since then, it's pretty much become his favorite hang out.

Our first year together was full of ups and downs. Since then, I've lived largely alone, and our relationship has been a lot more consistent. Basically, we homies now. More about that later. To leave on a positive note, here's a rare picture of Mister cuddling with me.

Have a very happy Caturday! If you own something fluffy, go cuddle it right meow!