CAT PERSON, PART 1

The author pictured with her baby sister and a decorative hanging mobile of cats wearing dresses

To say I am a cat person is a grave understatement. Loving cats is part of my DNA; it is an absolute truth. From my earliest years, I can remember blowing out the candles on my birthday cake and wishing for a pet cat — to be specific, a fluffy white cat. I decorated my childhood room in a tasteful motif of fluffy white cats: They lined the wallpaper border, stuffed ones were piled high on my bed, and figurines dignified every surface.

When I was nine, my parents finally surrendered, and my dream of adopting a kitten finally came true. We went to the shelter, but as it was Christmastime, all the kittens were taken — except one. A 12-week-old gray domestic shorthair remained.

We lifted him out of the kennel, and he purred and rubbed his cheeks on us. I remember him standing on my dad’s shoulders. When we put him back in the cage, he mewed desperately and stretched his tiny paws out of the spaces between the wires toward us.

I had to have him.

“He’s not white,” my mom pointed out. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait till we can find a white one?”

Hell no, I didn’t want to wait! I’d been waiting nine agonizing years! It was settled then. We brought him home, and I picked out the name. It came to me like a revelation: Alex P. Kitten, after the lead character in Family Ties (it was the ’80s, after all).

Alex was my best friend from that day forward. My mom fed him and cleaned his litter box, but he was my cat. He fell asleep in my arms every night and rushed to my side anytime I cried. We invented games together and basked in each other’s affection. The poor guy never had a cat treat or a real toy in his life, but he hijacked all of my smallest stuffed animals and dropped them victoriously at my feet. Owning a cat was everything I had dreamed of and more.

The author pictured with bodacious bangs and Alex as a kitten

I moved to Florida when I was 22, and Philip entered my life a few months later. He met my beloved childhood cat on several visits to my hometown, but Alex was diagnosed with kitty cancer shortly thereafter. Sometimes I think the stress of my absence was too much for his little feline body.

My parents called me the night before the entire family was scheduled to fly to Orlando for Thanksgiving. Alex was failing, and he couldn’t be left alone while they were all visiting me. They had made an appointment for the next morning to put him down before they headed to the airport.

We were all on different extensions of the phone, weeping together. Alex had been a true part of the family, a faithful companion for more than a decade. He had seen me go from a little girl with poof bangs and a sprawling Barbie village, to a teenager with her first boyfriend and her first car (a baby-blue 1967 Dodge Coronet), to a college student venturing off on her own for the first time, to a real adult with her first grown-up job. I wasn’t just losing my sweet little pet cat; I was losing an entire era of my life.

The next morning, my parents found that Alex had passed away while they slept. In the night, my father had felt Alex run across his chest and leap into the air, never landing. It was a dream though; Alex had been far too sick to run or jump. To this day, I’m flooded with gratitude that Alex chose to go that way, to spare my parents the guilt of having to put him down, and to allow his owners to come together later that afternoon in Florida and grieve as a family.

As an adult, I knew I wanted to adopt more cats (to be specific: two male kittens from the same litter, so they would be companions from the start), but I was determined to wait until the time was right. I had read that moving a lot stresses cats out, and I didn’t have a home to call my own.

Even after Philip and I were married, it didn’t seem like it was time yet. We wanted to buy a home, get settled, and wait until our work travels slowed a bit and we could focus on our new little kittens. In the meantime, I bought a book titled Total Kitten Care and read it cover to cover. I was going to be the best cat mom who ever walked the face of the earth.

Finally, two years after getting hitched, the time had arrived. We drove to the shelter, and I was so giddy; I felt like I was nine all over again. When we arrived, there was even a litter of solid-gray kittens! But when we took them out of their cage, the signs were all wrong. They were lethargic and disinterested. They didn’t want to snuggle or play; their tails didn’t pop up in curiosity and respect.

Philip said, “These aren’t the right kittens for us. We’ll come back next week.” I cried like a child.

But somehow I survived another week, and when we went back, that litter was gone. In its place, a new litter of eight-week-old gray kittens had come to the shelter, two males and a female. One of the males was already spoken for, so I was uncertain, because I wanted two boy cats, just like my Alex. But when we pulled the female out of the cage, she nuzzled right under my chin, purring uncontrollably. Pretty soon she was asleep in my arms. The little male played with Philip with gusto. We looked at each other and knew.

AJ (short for Alex Jr.) and Abbi came home with me a week later. We kept them closed in the laundry room overnight, and in the morning, I threw on my white robe and went to check on them. As soon as they saw me, their tails fluffed out in terror — what was this towering white creature?! But when I sat down on the floor and picked them up, they exploded into purrs and crawled all over me with relief and pleasure.

Our new little fur balls

Abbi sleeping on my chest as a kitten

Philip's not too sure about these two troublemakers.

AJ uses Abbi as a pillow.

Philip and I have always taken cat ownership very seriously. We cat-proofed the house and zealously researched litter boxes. We bought expensive pet food, stocked up on toys and treats, and purchased Christmas stockings for them. Philip even hand-built them a scratch post.

AJ enjoying some new toys

We kiss and love on them relentlessly and play fetch with their toy mice. We take them to the vet every year for a check-up, and we switched them to lite food when they started getting a little on the round side. When we travel, we make our cat-sitters come daily, and we load them up with detailed care instructions.

Most of all, our cats have become a hallmark of our relationship and a connection only Philip and I share. We started calling them “chats” after going to France, and we have endless inside jokes about their behaviors — Abbi sleeping in her “chat hammock”; AJ being a “vampire”; Abbi doing her “scootches and rolls”; AJ wanting “violent pets”; Abbi making an “announcement” anytime she jumps up onto something; AJ being a “chomp chat”; the two of them watching “chat TV.” Philip and I send each other photos, and the cats keep us company when one or the other is away traveling. AJ is the playful one, always up for a “mouse hunt” or a session with the teaser toy, and Abbi is still the snuggler (her favorite spot is draped across both Philip and me on the sofa).

AJ and Abbi still love the "chat hammock," but Abbi has ultimately claimed it as her own.

When they came into our home almost five years ago, they elevated us from being a couple to being a family. And as we’ve wrestled with infertility these last two years, they’ve come to mean even more to us. They’re our children, our source of comfort and entertainment, a bright spot as we face the monthly disappointment of, yet again, not having conceived.

The best of friends

Abbi, especially, is our baby. Our little lap cat, the one that forcefully head-butts our faces, kneads our stomachs while falling into a trance, and cries in distress when Philip and I argue. Every morning she demands the “big show,” when Philip or I clean the litter box and fill their food bowls — she loves to watch. She has such a loving, sweet personality that we actually call her “the Schweetie” more than we call her “Abbi.”

Abbi on my lap

That’s why it was so distressing when I came home late from work a month ago to find her clearly in discomfort. I thought she was constipated, as she kept squatting and straining around the house, but nothing was coming out.

TO BE CONTINUED