Crazy Cat Lady, and Damn Proud of It

A multi-level tower greets those who come through my door.  Toys made of foil or fluff are strewn across my floor.

You might call me a crazy cat lady.

I suppose I am one. And a bit of a novice, too. While I’ve loved animals my whole life, I was certain I was a dog person. Until two fuzzy feline sweethearts came into my life three years ago. Two kitties -- a mother and daughter – who lived on the streets and needed a human mommy.

It didn’t happen overnight. There were many days when I admired them from afar. Then my husband and I tendered some kitty treats, and a bond began to form.

We weren’t certain if either of us had allergies. So we started out with the rule that we wouldn’t allow them in the house beyond the front room. Then the rule quickly changed to “in the house but not in the bedrooms.” That rule didn’t last long, either.

Now three years in, the only forbidden zones are the cupboards containing household cleaners and the stove top. (OK, the inside of the refrigerator is off limits, too.)

So why the change? How did I become someone who never imagined being a cat mommy to a woman who does hours of online research to find the best cat harness?

Perhaps it links back to my disability. I developed severe rheumatoid arthritis back in grade school. The disease quickly became a juggernaut of severe joint pain and destruction. It has since resulted in two dozen major orthopedic surgeries, followed by months of torturous rehabilitation.

Do you know what it’s like to spend months on your back – your body aching from constantly maintaining the same position -- forbidden to enjoy the simple luxury of rolling onto your side?  

I do. I know what it feels like to lay in a pool of my own sweat collected under my lower back, unable to get air against my skin to evaporate the moisture.

It may sound like a small thing, something you could simply distract yourself from noticing. I assure you it is not. Because when your whole world consists of you in a hospital bed, you literally ache for the simple pleasures we often take for granted.

And I remember all of it: every miserable detail, even the sleepless nights from 40 years ago. Nights and days when I thought: “If only I could roll over for five minutes. If only I could lie on soft sheets. If only I could have a few moments of relief from these aches that never end.”

Perhaps that’s why – if you visit my home – you’ll see comfy cushions and baby blankets throughout my house and soft dish drying pads lying around my patio. I understand such things may label me a crazy cat lady. I proudly cop to that label.

But don’t forget there’s more to the story. That cushions and blankets and pads symbolize a reduction in suffering. The reduction in suffering that tantalized but evaded a frightened young girl in a hospital bed. The reduction in suffering that I am determined to provide to my fur angels.

Am I a crazy cat lady? You’re goddamn right I am.

ACTS OF KINDNESS MATTER, NO MATTER HOW SMALL.

When I feed my cats each day, I urge them to be kind to each other. To take care of each other. Mommy the Siamese and her daughter, the Tortie, seem to understand. They eat with delicate politesse from the same bowl. They crouch on opposite sides as they dine, resembling an adorable, fuzzy yin/yang symbol. Like the forces represented by the symbol, they truly are interconnected and interdependent. Despite the occasional brief skirmish, they are best friends.

 

We need friends because life can be hard, indeed. Just when you think you’re getting ahead of the game, along comes the family squabble, the leaking roof, or the aching back.

 

And life is full of cruel ironies. Take Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, for instance. What could be more natural than, after you’ve gone through an horrific, painful experience, to do virtually anything to prevent that misery from happening to you again? Yet sometimes that natural urge to protect yourself morphs into something monstrous, and becomes as damaging as the initial trauma.

 

It’s a ridiculous understatement to say that the world can be a harsh place. And each day, we’re bombarded by images on our TVs, computers and smart phones of barbarity and callousness. Of sheer willful stupidity and disregard for the wellbeing of others.

 

Which is why it is so very important for each of us to show gentleness in our little corners of the world. Like the older gentleman in the photo, for example. His dog is getting on in years and struggles with the pain of arthritis and failing eyesight. But he loves her dearly. Wants her to feel the sunshine and breezes, to sniff the myriad scents her canine snoot can pick up. So each day, he gently picks her up, puts her in a wheelchair and takes her for a ride down the street.

 

It’s not a huge gesture. It won’t redress any major wrongs or improve the lives of thousands. Yet it is undeniably an act of kindness. It alleviates a bit of suffering and brings a bit of joy to two living creatures whose lives are interconnected and interdependent.

 

Acts of kindness matter, no matter how small.

FINDING A FRIEND IN A MOST IMPROBABLE WAY

I am just as human as anyone else. Which means I’m susceptible to the stupid ideas that humans can have.

 

I must confess that, even though I pride myself on championing the rights of the marginalized, I am sometimes guilty of buying into ugly biases and stereotypes. In this case, I held prejudices about a friend.

 

I met her about a year and half ago. She lives in my neighborhood. When we first saw each other, I sensed that she wanted to connect with me. Looking back now, I can see that she was clearly afraid of trusting too much.  Afraid of getting hurt.

 

I took her standoffishness as arrogance, because that is what I’d been taught to believe about her group. That her ilk thought themselves better than everyone else.

 

So I steered clear of her, until her overtures of friendship became more insistent. Okay, maybe she’s different, I thought. Plus, I’m a sucker for a pretty face, and she surely has one. Her eyes dazzle like blue topaz stones.

 

We began to connect over food. My husband was the one who suggested we break bread together. And after a week or so, it became clear that we were nurturing a real friendship.

 

I finally began to let go of my prejudices. Why? Because once I got to know my new friend, I realized she was amazing. Smart. Sweet and gentle. Funny as all get out.

 

Within a month, she began visiting our house on a regular basis. After two months, she was coming to our house every day, both before I went to work and just after I returned in the evening.

 

Shortly after that, I had to admit that my initial biases about my friend were really more about me than her. I harbored unfair notions because I was afraid of being rejected. Of being made to feel not good enough. Of being seen as an awkward freak in a sinister, mechanical contraption on wheels.

 

But my friend treated me no differently than she treated my able-bodied husband. She was not the least bit afraid of my wheelchair. She didn’t run and hide when I moved closer to her. In fact, when I transferred to my living room recliner, she would sit in my wheelchair right next to me. She still does.

 

Perhaps you’ve guessed by now that my friend isn’t human. She’s a cat. A gorgeous, brilliant, delightful Siamese kitty.

 

I’d grown up in a family of “dog people.” I bought into their anti-feline propaganda. That cats are cold and unaffectionate. That they see humans solely as sources of food and toys. That they are incapable or unwilling to bond and love the way dogs do.

 

What rubbish. In a few short months, Princess Miyuku Honey Bear of the Royal Court of Siam (that’s her name) taught me the beautiful truths about cats. The finest of those truths is that cats can love and accept me, sometimes more wholeheartedly than humans do.

 

I am most honored to be one of Honey Bear’s guardians. Because she’s sweet and silly and whip-smart. But mostly because she accepts me, wheels and all.