I possess a cat. Her name is Daisy. She’s fat, relatively fluffy, pretty attractive, but with the emotional and actual intelligence of a bit of used Kleenex. I adopted her from the woman named Eva who fostered cats out of a railroad apartment deep in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. When I arrived at Eva’s house to satisfy her, she was living with an impressive number of other animals: three that were hers, a couple more which were up for adoption, several playpens at nighttime corners from the living room full of kittens, and a pair of Russian Blues Irrrve never saw but only heard, mewling in the bathroom. “They’re sick,” Eva said, as I made all things in?her house, “but you can try them if you want to.”
Daisy adapted to her new house with ease. My sister’s cat, Crusty, lives around as well. He did not handle the modification with grace, and 5 years later, his life continues to be irrevocably changed. Daisy’s presence – fat, impassive, harmless – is the bane of his existence. When he isn’t dragging a travel neck pillow across the floor, yowling and rubbing his body against it in a neverending cycle of unresolved sexual release, he’s chasing Daisy round the apartment, biting tufts of fur from her back and eating them. When the radiator kicks to life in our house, the cats get together in an uneasy truce, each tolerating the others’ presence because they splay their fat bodies close to heat source.
Most of times, they tolerate our ministrations of love. I sing songs to Daisy and she looks at me, dumbfounded, prior to leaving the room. To pet Crusty anywhere on his body for over 5 minutes is a good way to test out your tolerance for pain, for his needle teeth will permeate the soft flesh off your arm. Daisy, for reasons which are beyond my ken, shits on the ground in small rabbit turds, like marbles. She’ll only poop within the box provided if you watch her. Together, they ruin couches, piles of books, French presses. Crusty once ate a bit of thread that cost $6,000 to remove from his body. If you define companionship as physically sharing an area with something living besides yourself, a cat will do the job. But to consider anything else for the reason that cat-human relationship is pointless. It’ll only make you heartbroken.
Cat individuals are secret masochists, the type who get off on unrequited love and willingly commit themselves to a life subject to a four-legged creature that knocks water glasses off the table for sport. Dogs are thirsty, the animal kingdom’s equivalent for people who tweet at brands and celebrities inside a look for approval. You never have to ponder whether your pet loves you or not, since it is as plain as the shit-eating grin with their face. Their desire for you is unbridled, bordering on obsession. Cats, if left unattended with fresh foods, water along with a restroom, will exist happily in your absence for days, wandering the halls of the personal prisons, resting on piles of fresh laundry, expelling dander with every sigh. We like our cats because we consider ourselves their saviors. But the roi is pitiful. God forbid you disturb your precious angel’s 19th hour of uninterrupted sleep with a gentle pat on the head. In this relationship, affection is reciprocated in their whim. For a cat, submitting for your affections is really a Pyrrhic victory.
To accept the cat would be to live with a specific kind of Stockholm syndrome. We adopt pets simply because they provide companionship. Your dog will like you unconditionally throughout your days. Cats resist traditional companionship by doing the minimum. They occupy the same physical space while you against their will, yet somehow we become their emotional captors. An affectionate cat that demonstrates anything beyond passing interest is an uncommon thing indeed. Treasure it.