I have lived alone for a very long time. My divorce finalized on January 8, 2008, and once my boys left for school, I’ve had quite the empty nest. I remember, oh so naively, thinking, “well, I’m still relatively young. I could meet someone and start a new relationship.” Thirteen years and countless awful attempts at, ahem, hooking up, here I am, still the sole occupant of my life. Until, that is, about six weeks ago.
I may have been alone, and certainly felt lonely on occasion, but I pride myself at not falling into the cliché trap that many divorced – or single women in general – fall into of needing a man to “complete me.” I have a very rich and varied life and feel fortunate to pursue only activities that interest me. Pre-pandemic I delighted in teaching yoga to my students on the mat. I enjoyed the intellectual engagement of the book group I lead (we’re still at it via Zoom). I shared my love of Spanish with struggling students. And I relished (yup, pun intended) educating local underserved populations about the importance of good nutritional choices. And of course, I lived, ate, and breathed Shakespeare for thirteen months in Stratford Upon Avon a few years ago.
I eat when I want, watch what I want, keep the temperature where I want it, and come and go as I please. Until, that is, about six weeks ago.
Coming in at a close second to the constant chorus of “you should try online dating. Again,” was the refrain of “you should get a pet.” Nothing good ever seems to follow a statement that starts with “you should,” or “just.” Just saying. If I didn’t need a man to complete me, why would I need a fur baby? I’ve already raised two children.
I’d parented two cats already: Shakespeare the orange tabby who was really a dog in disguise, and Cleopatra, the Ben & Jerry’s cow black & white, who was really an alien in disguise. As with childbirth, I blithely forgot all the agony, and reminisced through cheesecloth over the ecstasy. Oh, the purring! Oh, the greeting in the morning! Oh, the cuddling on the couch! And that, as do so many fantasies coupled with a few glasses of wine, led to a new arrival at home.
My dental hygienist had adopted a stunning Siamese from a group called Secondhand Siamese that rescues the breed, along with Ragdolls, from kill shelters in the South. I pored over cute cat photos, and finally contacted them and submitted an application. “What’s the worst that can happen?”, I thought. “I haven’t committed to anything and could change my mind if a kitten comes available.”
That was, of course, until John sent me a photo of the six-week-old Dumpling, with his Wedgewood-blue eyes, begging me to bring him home. Which, as I’ve already written about, I did. And renamed him Romeo, because, Shakespeare.
The two-pound imp that fit in my hand has now more than doubled in size and has become a bona fide menace to society. Those Wedgewood-blue eyes can turn Loch Ness deep cerulean when he glares at me, or Darth Maul red when his pupils dilate to stalk prey (mostly my hand). I no longer eat when I want, sleep as long as I like, nor do whatever I want whenever I want. Because, Romeo. Kittens, I forgot, are a handful. They require nearly constant attention, frequent feeding, and don’t take well to training. Of any kind. Romeo does not understand, nor does he care, that I’d prefer he not jump into the snake plant right after I water it and then stomp around my nicely refinished floors with muddy paws. He finds running down the stairs winding between my feet more of an interesting obstacle course than a threat to my existence. He sits and stares at me while I shower, making me feel like Janet Leigh to his Anthony Perkins. The back of my hand – his favorite chew toy - looks like a rural map covered in crisscrossing red roads. It completely befuddles him that I’d prefer – or need – to do anything but play with him for three hours at a time with a telescoping wand festooned feathers and an immensely annoying bell. He would rather paw at the New York Times than let me pore over it. He prefers to “ack ack ack” at Juliet and Tybalt (squirrels who visit my seed-strewn deck) with me at his side in wide-leg child pose. I walk around addressing him in a childishly high pitched voice saying inane things that he does not understand (although apparently this habit implies superior intelligence: https://www.psychologytoday.com/us/blog/animals-and-us/201912/does-talking-your-pet-mean-youre-smarter). He has made me into the cliched crazy cat lady.
“Just” (there’s that dreaded word) “lock him in another room,” well-meaning, misguided friends tell me. “You spoil him,” said someone who doesn’t know me well enough to make that assertion. I adopted him of my own free will and promised to keep him safe, healthy, and loved. He deserves my attention. Secondly, if I were to lock him in said room, he would mewl at the top of his growing kitty lungs, scratch hieroglyphics into the door, and destroy everything he could manage to reach in retaliation for the imprisonment.
I am exhausted. I feel resentful at times of this tiny usurper of my time. I wonder what I was thinking at others. Until I realize that a) he is doing exactly what a four-month-old kitten ought to do, and b) there is a lesson in this somewhere for me.
Perhaps I needed an annoying, attention-grabbing furball in my home, my life, and my heart, to begin to thaw that iceberg of solitude that has frozen around me in the last thirteen years. Maybe I need to learn to be even more flexible than my yoga practice keeps me, and to be forced to put another’s needs before my own within the confines of my home. “It won’t be this way forever,” said Randy, my wise college roommate and still BFF, “he will settle down after kittenhood.” She might have been talking to herself, as she has adopted her second Labradoodle, who is currently matching Romeo antic-for-antic and trying her patience, too. His adorable name is Jackson. His nickname, for the way he eviscerates his food, is Raptor. They seemingly communicate telepathically; when I sent her a photo of Romeo exploring the open dishwasher, that’s precisely where Jackson was at that moment. She is hoping he will soon stop terrorizing her, her husband, and her more docile doodle Husdon.
I don’t know if a man with ever figure in to my life again, and if not, I am ok with that. I am so lucky and so fulfilled in other ways. I thank Romeo for crashing into my life and into the shower door periodically. He may be a little terror, but he excels at cuddling while purring like a nitro-fueled funny car. It’s a fair trade off.
You can follow Romeo, who has his own Instagram account, @RomeoFelineFine