Elle is threatening to get me a kitten for Christmas. She works for the SPCA, and she can do that kind of thing. She can liberate a teeny tiny little kitten with the sweetest pink nose and giant bat ears and big liquid eyes full of love and mayhem, with a purr like a rattle and paws like little shovels, an itty bitty fluffy cotton ball of adorable doom and loose bladder, with claws like tiny needles that sink right into the jelly of my eyeball.
You can see that I’m kind of torn on the issue.
I’ve already got this Fang thing, my fat little buddy who is a little bit dumb and a whole lot of lovable, mostly because he’s dumb, but partly because of the habit, he has of flying over to me whenever I settle into a stationary position for even a second, and flopping around over and on and near me until he has achieved a satisfactory amount of contact, whether it is falling over on my lap with all four feet trembling in the air, or delicately stretching out a paw and placing it gently on my wrist. He must be touching me in some way, it seems, and I can’t help but be completely and unabashedly charmed by that.
Well, maybe a little abashedly charmed by that.
So I love my cat, even when he is licking my nose, or biting me
suddenly and without warning right on the face and giving me rabies, or
knocking over my wine glass or stepping directly on my fresh tattoo.
And sometimes I think he is lonely—when I am not home, it is like a
panic sweeps over him and he becomes convinced he is going to die in a
freak house inferno, so that when I come home, he comes screeching up
to me, scolding, scolding, scolding. “Do you know what time it is?
Where have you been? What have you been doing? You smell like smoke!
Out partying, when I could have died of asphyxiation in a terrible
fire! But no, you never think of me, do you? You only think of
yourself, don’t you? I could have starved to death—oh, no, don’t
think filling up my bowl is going to make me forgive you. I am not so
weak that kibble is the key to my heart, you know,
you monster. You can’t just prance in here and…oh, I am a little
hungry. And listen to it jingle when it hits the bo…mmph. Mrrph. Mmph.
Mmph. Oh, yeah. That’s the stuff. Mmph. Crunch. Hey! Where are you
going? Why aren’t you watching me eat? Are we sitting? Let’s sit! I
like to sit. We’re friends! Yay! I can’t stay mad at you.”
Or I could be the lonely one. But I think it would be good to have some
companionship for him and the exercise a kitten would bring into his
life, and the mental stimulation, because I know he’s not getting
particularly mentally stimulated by sleeping all day, or watching his
And then I think that I’m a crazy fucking cat lady, who possibly needs
hobbies (that don’t fill her with rage) and that having a second cat in
a studio apartment is a really poor idea, and what if it is not a good
cat? What if it is a bad cat who pees on things? What if it makes me
tired? The idea of a second cat makes me tired. No second cat.
But when I’m hanging out with Elle, and she is telling me, in that
sweet voice she has, that there was the most perfect white kitten in
the world, today, and it is so fluffy and tiny and sweet and made of so
much pure love and spangly sunshine that it is like mainlining
adorableness so hard you are knocked right the fuck out, and wouldn’t
they look so good together, the little white cat and the little black
cat, I start to second-think. I start to think, “A kitten! That’s what
will make my life complete!” and so far everything’s been on my side
and I’ve managed to not blurt out the “YES OH MY GOD ABOOBOOBOO!” that
is percolating under my tongue, but it is only a matter of time before
I’m picking out names and collars and Fang is picking out a way to kick