One of the biggest fears of any single woman is to one day become a cat lady. According to Wikipedia:
A stereotypical cat lady is a single woman who dotes upon her cat, or multiple cats. The term is considered pejorative. In the West, single women who own cats have long been associated with the concept of spinsterhood. In more recent decades, the concept of a cat lady has been associated with romance-challenged (often career-oriented) women who can’t find a man.
Becoming a cat lady has never been a real fear of mine. You see, I hate cats. In fact, I can’t stand most animals. The core reason is that I’m incredibly allergic to most furred animals. I remember when I was in the fourth grade, my sister had a pet rabbit named Bo-Bo (after the shoes). I begged and begged my mother to let me play with the rabbit. She finally agreed, and let me tell you, that was the best afternoon of my life. We frolicked. We played. I lovingly tried to turn his floppy, black ears inside-out. He not-so-lovingly tried to bite me. After the fun, I jumped in the shower to wash off all the rabbit hair. And proceeded to have an asthma attack, turned a pretty shade of blue because I couldn’t breathe, and was taken to the hospital.
I could have died, people. And so began my hatred of animals. Although I will say, as a young child, I had a German Shepherd named Sheba that I simply adored. Not to be confused with the subsequent two other German Shepherds named Sheba my family owned (my dad is crazy. Or unoriginal. I can’t decide). Sheba #1 was the best dog ever and it was about the saddest day of my life when we had to put her down due to cancer. I haven’t cared about an animal the same way since. I know, deep. This blog is an onion, people.
Animals seem to hate me too. My ex fiancé’s dog did everything she could to break us up. While he was at work, she was a completely different dog – an evil dog. She’d look me directly in the eye, then proceed to squat and pee on my favorite carpet, never breaking eye contact as I screamed at her to stop. She’d chew straight through my blow dryer cord, rendering it unusable, knowing it was the most important part of my morning routine. She even pretended to be blind to get my ex’s attention, but I’m telling you, when he wasn’t around, she could see just fine.
When I first started dating Chef, I learned he had a cat and immediately predicted the demise of the relationship. Before we even had a first date. Luckily, his cat died.
Okay, that came out wrong. May Wilson rest in peace.
I hardly remember the early months of dating Chef; I was so hopped up on antihistamines. I was allergic to his clothes, even if they had just been washed. Whenever I visited his house, Wilson would give me the evil eye – he must have known I was plotting to get rid of him.
I give you this background to tell you that I am not an animal lover. I get it, you people like animals (I’m looking at you, Katie, with your ridiculously adorable dogs). I even understand the reasons. It’s just not me.
Until recently, that is. Until my uterus began to hurt.
Okay, male readers (all five of you), I have to apologize for randomly throwing a uterus reference into a blog post. Maybe I should have prepared you. I know you can be quite squeamish about the female reproductive system. In case you are lost, the uterus is what holds the baby when a woman is pregnant. If you didn’t know that, maybe you should retake 8th grade health class.
Ladies, I think you know what I mean when I say my uterus hurts. I am sitting at the pool, drinking a cocktail, watching a woman playing with her adorable little baby boy. He’s got a floppy hat and those little orange floaties that go on his arms. He laughs excitedly, splashing in the water.
Ouch. Uterus. Hurts.
I read Tori Nelson’s blog where she posts incredibly cute pictures of her son. I decide I need to start boycotting blogs of people with children because my uterus simply can’t take the stress.
My ex fiancé and I talked about getting pregnant as early as our honeymoon. Which means right now, in an alternate universe, I should have a baby. Or at least be pregnant. That’s assuming my piping is all in good condition.
Jesus, I have enough to worry about without wondering if I’m actually infertile. Let’s stick a pin in that.
Last year around this time, I decided I needed something to love and bought a gardenia plant from Whole Foods. We all know how that turned out. Cue me wondering if I can’t keep a gardenia plant alive how I could possibly keep a baby alive. Never mind that the only place in my one-bedroom apartment I could put a baby would be my walk in closet, and damn it, I paid extra for that closet. I’m not giving it up to no stinking baby.
Ah, and the reasons stack up as to why I’m not ready for the wonderful world of motherhood.
The other day, Chef came over to visit and we noticed a stray cat outside my apartment. He said, “I’d give anything to pet a cat again. I miss Wilson.”
So, I did what any pseudo-girlfriend would do. I made it my mission in life to befriend this stray cat. So that Chef could pet it, that is. Or maybe so my uterus would stop hurting. Who knows?
Chef noted my efforts, and told me he was just joking around, not to worry about it. I should stay away from the cat. It’s a stray, after all. It could have rabies. He wasn’t in the mood for a trip to the emergency room tonight.
But I was on a mission. Tabitha would be my friend, if it was the last thing I did. Notice, I named her Tabitha. Also notice, I also decided it was a her. Without any evidence. I’m a cat whisperer, obviously.
I was also feeling quite bad for Tabitha, as it was 100 degrees that day and she must have been very thirsty. And, as I told Chef, stray cats in the suburbs are totally different from stray cats in the city. In the city, there is a bunch of them outside a trash can. They are disgusting. In the suburbs, like my Chester apartment complex, they are blonde, cute, clean and simply adorable.
Yes, I know I’ve lost it. I love the hell out of this cat. She helped me forget all about my uterus … issues.
For days, Tabbie and I bonded. I gave her water and Nathan’s hot dogs; she hung out with me in the hallway outside my apartment. Each night when I arrived home from work, I would hear her sorrowful, “Meow” and I would respond with, “Meow.” We had our own little game of Marco Polo. I even invited her into my house to get out of the heat, but she was too skittish to come inside.
She wouldn’t allow me to pet her, as she is very afraid of humans. But she did let me feed her the hot dog pieces by hand (I know, I have problems), and we have this really cute game where she puts her paw on my finger and tries to bite me. It’s more of nibble.
It’s only cute until she actually bites me. Now that would really suck. But I think she’s just being playful. I hope.
I came home earlier this week, excited to feed her on my door step. I’d been brainstorming all day what I could feed her. (I hadn’t made the leap to buying actual cat food, because that would make me really crazy, but I had learned that you aren’t supposed to give a cat cow’s milk. Who knew?!)
I began our nightly game.
“Meow,” I called. (AKA, Marco!)
“Meow,” I repeated, my voice becoming a little more timid.
“Tabbie???” I called desperately.
She was nowhere to be found.
I haven’t seen her since.
Of course, I’ve been frantically calling hospitals and putting up “Missing Cat” posters. These are the only pictures I have of her, taken with my crappy cell phone camera.
Have you seen her? I miss her.
Damn it, I’m a cat lady.
And my uterus hurts again.