Romeo and I have cohabitated for just over three weeks. The furball is a handful. He demands constant attention, gets into everything, and robs me of sleep. I feel like a cranky, achy new mom. One who is far too old for this nonsense. But the love… and the cuddling… and his excruciating cuteness… they save him. And as I observe his typically feline but uniquely Romeo-esque behavior (which I do a lot because I spend most of my day inside with him) I’ve also noticed his wisdom, particularly as it relates to quarantine.
Many mornings (earlier now, thanks to RomeoTheCat) find me conflicted, wondering how much longer I can withstand the straightjacket that Covid-19 has imposed on all of us, and then feeling guilty for feeling that way. I am more than lucky to have a comfortable roof over my head, plentiful food, and a family bubble to play in. I know this is more than many have.
But, as my mother used to say, “you have what you have,” and as I said last week, I must simply sit with feelings of discomfort rather than trying to rationalize them away. So during a delicious moment of wallowing while watching the cat, I realized that he, and may of his brethren worldwide, submit to permanent quarantine. Many cats do enjoy the liberty of wandering the streets and chasing prey to bring back to their humans - who no doubt relish headless birds dropped on their doormats - but when I adopted Romeo from the Secondhand Siamese rescue organization, I signed a contract, one clause of which stipulated that he would remain forever an indoor cat, with all its attendant health and safety benefits. He is condemned to life within the confines of my four walls.
After careful observation, I have collected the best of his coping strategies in hopes of adopting them to more react more elegantly to lockdown:
Exercise. I bemoan the gym limitations that have forced me to put my membership on hold, and the cold winter temperatures that keep me inside. Yes, I have warm clothes. Yes, a little fresh air would do me good. But still, I argue with myself on even the sunniest day before donning numerous layers and going out for even the shortest amble around the block. Romeo makes time for vigorous movement every day. In fact, during his waking hours, he does nothing else. He makes use of his own body weight, a few feather wands, and my (now scarred) hands to jump, roll, and run. A lot. I need to be more like Romeo.
Food and drink. I use food to soothe, amuse, and entertain me. I wind up each unstrenuous and uninteresting day with a bold and fascinating glass of cabernet. This, combined with the above-mentioned reduction in calorie burn has deposited an infuriating but inevitable hibernation-like layer of Covid-belly. Romeo eats and drinks only when he is hungry and thirsty (what a concept). Even though I, admittedly, control his nutritional intake, he leaves food in his dish when sated. He does not belong to the clean plate club into which my grandparents inducted me at a young age, its motto: “There are people starving in Europe.” I need to be more like Romeo.
Circadian Rhythm. I like to stay up late and then languish in bed in the morning, mulling over the day and catching up on all the very important things that happened on Instagram and Words With Friends overnight. Romeo wakes at dawn and puts his head down a few hours after dark and his last feeding (with a catnap or two in between).
The heck with Romeo. I want my late nights and lazy mornings back. But there is something very sensible about paying attention to the natural rhythms of the days and the seasons, and adjusting our habits to accommodate them, rather than forcing our ways on the natural order. OK, OK, I need to be more like Romeo.Grooming. Romeo meticulously bathed and voids himself multiple tones a day. I shower - it’s a treat at the end of the day for me - but the coiffing has fallen sorely by the wayside, and my wardrobe consists of black leggings with whatever clean oversized sweatshirt is handiest. My mascara is no doubt past it’s expiration date despite very infrequent use. Romeo cares what he looks like even though he sees almost no one but me. I need to be more like Romeo.
Emotion. I find it quite effective to pout and grumble when anything ruffles my OCD-arranged feathers. Eye rolling, tongue clicking, and various other vague body language signals are my go-to to indicate that something frustrates me. Withdrawing and the previously-mentioned food and drink work, too. Romeo, on the other hand, communicates clearly, concisely, and directly. He has easily distinguishable expressions for “I’m hungry,” (a high-pitched, rapid mewl), “Stop doing that I don’t like it,” (a staccato yelp), “That squirrel is encroaching on our territory and needs to leave now,” (a rapid-fire ‘ack, ack, ack"), and “Holy shit that feels good,” (Ferrari engine purr). I need to be more like Romeo.
Tenacity. This cat will pursue a tattered red ribbon with the determination of a hunting Serengeti lion, with one paw (the other attached to my now snagged favorite leggings) ceaselessly. He pursues everything he does with fervor and positivity. I feel defeated by the literal and figurative weight of 2020 at times. I need to be more like Romeo.
Appreciation. I want to lay on the floor and whine because I haven’t seen friends been anywhere worn my nice shoes clothes makeup had my hair cut taken an OrangeTheory class ridden the train seen a movie a play the city in what feels like eighty billion years. Romeo seems quite content if his belly and heart are full. I need to be more like Romeo.
I fully understand that his brain, which more than fits into the palm of one of my hands, is less developed than mine. His needs are evolutionarily basic, and hence, perhaps, more easily sated than mine. Nevertheless, we are stuck together in my modest townhouse, and as I watch him cope with much more grace than I, I realize that he has much to teach me. Although I wish he would stop trying to dig up all the houseplants, the truth is, I need to be more like Romeo.