Lisha Cassibo has been writing for the Uxbridge Cosmos for two years, both as a freelancer and as a columnist. She has also written for several parenting magazines both here in Canada and for English publications in Switzerland. She graduated from Carleton University with an honours degree in Journalism and English Literature. She lives with her family in Sunderland.
Cat-astrophe
Something is happening to me. I don't know how it came on, or how long it's been growing inside of me, but something is happening, and I don't know whether I should try and stop it or not. I'm beginning to like cats.
I am a dog person. I have always been a dog person. There have been very few times in my life when I have not lived with a dog in some capacity. Growing up, my family always had a pooch. At university, I boarded with a woman who bred pug dogs. When I lived on my own, I had a small Lhasa Apso; she even made it into my wedding photos. That same dog travelled the world, living with us for the seven years we were in Switzerland, and going to doggy heaven not long after we moved back to Canada. And as I sit and write this, my chocolate Lab is sighing loudly, cross that we're not walking while it's freezing rain outside.
I've never had much use for cats. Aside from the fact that they are (I realize I'm stereotyping here) way too self-sufficient, standoffish, and nocturnal for my mothering (perhaps read smothering) ways, I am severely allergic to them. I cannot be in a house that owns even one cat without puffing up, breaking out, sneezing my head off and gasping for breath. I've always figured, why get attached to them, you can't even touch them!
So I need someone to explain to me why twice, yes TWICE in the past year, a feline friend has found its way into my heart. And devastated me both times.
My first was Wee'un. She wandered across the road and into my life late last summer, as I was saying good night to a friend who'd been visiting. She hid under my van in the driveway, and mewed the most plaintive, desperate-sounding mew you'd ever want to hear. After some coaxing, I managed to get her close enough to me to see that she was dirty and that her flea collar was wrapped unnaturally around her tiny, emaciated little body. I fixed her collar, and went in the house to ask my husband if it was a bad idea to give this poor little thing some milk. He is a cat person, and has always harboured a deep resentment over the fact that my health comes before his desire to have something purr lovingly at his feet. Since I won't purr lovingly at his feet, he's always held it against me. Anyway, we ended up giving this poor little kitten two bowls of milk and a tin of salmon. We made up a small bed for her, and she was outside the door the next morning, asking for more. By now, my girls had met her, and were as pleased as punch that we had a new pet. She didn't leave, and soon cat food showed up on my grocery list. I named her Wee'un because she was so small, and, when no one was looking, would sit for lengthy periods of time on my back porch, letting her rub up against me, listening to her purr, and leave her white and orange fur all over me. The copious quantities of laundry I had to do and the chapped hands I had from over washing seemed small prices to pay in order to watch this little creature, who had obviously been abandoned, gradually plump up and begin to grow. The girls begged for her to come in the house, and my heart ached as I explained for the bazillionth time why we couldn't have a cat in the house. Allergies aside, I didn't want to be responsible for what would happen to any furry friend when I discovered my baby grand piano being used for a scratching post.
One day, however, Wee'un didn't show up for breakfast. Or dinner. Nor did she the day after that, and so on. We have talked ourselves into believing that another family loved her like we did, but were willing to let her inside. I don't want to think about the other possibilities. But when I realized she wasn't coming back, I got a little teary. Upon telling our sad tale to a friend of mine who is a huge cat fan, she told me she was glad I had finally come to my senses. We fed the rest of the cat food to the dog, and life moved on.
Then, just a couple of weeks ago, I was visiting a farm owned by a friend. As my girls played happily with the millions of kitties milling about, and I stood with my hands firmly planted in my pockets, three kittens came up to my feet. Two played for a minute or so, then moved on. The third looked up at me, and in the instant that our eyes locked, I knew I was a goner. I picked her up, and we spent two hours together, while she rode around the farm in my hoodie, purring and watching the world from my shoulders. I very reluctantly put her down when it was time to leave, and happily bore the hives and watery eyes and sneezing that plagued me the rest of the day. I had fallen in love.
I found myself trying to think of all the various ways we could try to bring her home, knowing all the time that it was impossible. But I couldn't get her out of my mind.
A most unfortunate accident occurred but a few days later, leaving me completely bereft. When I discovered that my new love would not be at the farm the next time I visited (and I was trying to make up excuses to go) because, well, kitties shouldn't play near farm equipment, I sobbed. And a photo that was taken when we first met is my screen saver on my cell phone. We were soul mates, ripped apart too soon.
So now I have a serious problem. I like cats. (I can't believe I just wrote that.) I like cats, and cannot have one. I guess, like many things in life, one should not always have what one wants.
That's really too bad. I think we'd be purr-fect together.
