There comes a day in every pre-mature spinster's life when getting a cat seems like a good idea. For me, I thought that day would never come. I have been a long time hater of cats, you see. Cats and commitment. Cats seem like a good idea at first, with their promises of unconditional love and affection. But all too quickly the human-feline relationship turns to cold indifference with bursts of hostility and a general, mutually despised co-dependence. Commitment between human couples I feel is much the same.
Perhaps that’s how I came to think, fleetingly, that acquiring a cat was a good idea. I wouldn’t have been particularly fond of the cat, it wouldn’t have been particularly fond of me, but together we could have had some kind of resentment-fuelled companionship. After all, going to the pet store and purchasing a cat certainly seemed like the easier option compared to fetching a potential partner from the local flea-infested bar or, dare I say it, the disappointing and often misleading world of Tinder.
I often joke about being the crazy cat lady. To the point I think I’m actually going to have to go and find some cats, scoop them into a picnic basket and start throwing them at random strangers just to validate my title. Picture it: a lovely couple, sitting together at a lookout watching the sunset, whispering sweet nothings into each other's ears, when... BAM! Cat in the face. A high-pitch screech as the feline goes flying through the air, claws extended for impact, tufts of fur everywhere. And me, scuttling away down the hill, oversized basket under one arm, cats bouncing around inside, and my cackle, fading off into the distance. The once happy couple left pondering what they did to deserve the wrath of a stranger with too many cats.
I’d be like the Miss Havisham of cat owners. And I’d create intricate back-stories for each of my 52 felines, starting with Cornelius, the tabby-cross who had to hide his love for 18th century poetry from the tough neighbourhood cats who sold kitty litter for crack. And Olga, the Persian cat, who grew up in a lavish upper east-side apartment but was abandoned when she began over-eating and ballooned to a size 18. Eduardo would be my favourite. He’d bring me a dead mouse every day just to show how much he cared.
Fortunately, I don’t like cats. So a cat-less Miss Havisham I would be at best. While I struggle to understand the appeal of owning a cat, I have often thought about how great it would be if I were a cat. Think about it. You would get to mooch off someone, strutting around their house like you own the place, knocking shit out of the way if you felt like it. On cold days you could curl up on someone’s lap and have them scratch you behind the ear and bring you a warm saucer of milk. And when that person started to annoy you, you could flaunt your complete disdain for them and still be showered with praise and affection.
The inevitable conclusion to my half-backed scheme was that I would be far, far better off not surrounding myself with a creature I would quickly grow to despise and that I acquired in a moment of fleeting loneliness. I also decided not to get a cat. Because they’re jerks.