To All The Cats I’ve Loved Before
I love dogs. There is this part in the movie “Elf” when Will Ferrell’s character is babbling about his day and he says, “Good news! I saw a dog today!” This is how I feel about dogs. Any encounter with one, even from far across the street, is a good thing, a bright spot in any day. I grew up with dogs and, since entering adulthood, have always wanted one. Unfortunately my schedule and commute have never allowed for a dog. (Also, my landlord doesn’t allow dogs, but that matters less to me…most things are negotiable when you’re a good tenant who puts up with a lot of nonsense.)
I also grew up with cats in spite of the fact that my mother was and is allergic to them. While I do prefer dogs, a cat is nothing to sneeze at (unless you’re my mom). Cats are, in their own way, just as companionable as dogs, if somewhat moodier. They are cute and self-cleaning. They have very distinct personalities. I have had three cats in my lifetime, all three male and each one completely different than the other two.
Tennessee was the first. We spent the summer when I was six years old in Nashville at my grandparents’ house because Grams had one of her knees replaced and needed help. So once school let out, Mom packed Meredith and I in the van and we drove down south. At some point after we arrived, Mom decided to clean out the van. She had it parked in the car port with all the doors open, running the vacuum over the carpets inside when a small black and white stray kitten appeared and decided he liked the look of my mom. He came over to where she was cleaning the van.
I’m not sure of the order of operations, but each of the following happened in rapid succession:
the cat wouldn’t leave my mother alone
the cat was treed by Grams and Grampy’s dog, Misty
Meredith and I became aware of the cat and immediately decided we had to feed him
having been fed, the cat would not leave
begging ensued to keep the cat and bring him in the house
the cat received a flea bath which was badly needed
the cat barfed up a bunch of worms and so was taken to the vet
we went to a pet store and bought a cat carrier and litter box
at some point my mother called my dad and said, “hey, guess what? We have a cat now”
The cat adopted us, so it was only fair that we adopt him back. We named him Tennessee for his land of origin and then packed him up to come home with us. I was so excited to have a new playmate. Oblivious to the fact that most cats don’t like being picked up, I made it my mission to find and play with the cat as often as possible. Upon arriving home from school I would immediately go looking for him, pick him up, and force him to snuggle me. I would “play” with him by giving him incessant hugs and holding him up high over my head, much like you would play airplane with a baby, but with a cat. This came to be known within the family as me “torturing the cat”. I still maintain that I was simply playing with him.
Often our play sessions would end with him wrapped around my forearm, biting and clawing with all his might. This did not deter me. I’m sure at the beginning her tried to hide and run away when he saw me coming, but I always found him. I got my forced snuggles and even found ways to make him purr when I held him. For example, in one house we had this exposed beam that had an angled piece that stuck out about five feet in the air. I would pick up the cat and stick him on that angled beam and then walk a few feet away. It was just high enough off the ground that he was scared to jump down, so when I walked over and stood next to him he gratefully climbed into my arms and would let me hold him for quite awhile.
Okay, yes, I tortured him. But here’s the thing: Tennessee always came back for more. By the time I was in high school he never even fought me anymore. He didn’t run or hide, he’d just let me pick him up and toss him around with nary a scratch or bite. He was either very dumb or he actually grew accustomed to my affections. Most mornings I woke up with him on my bed, usually on top of me. A few times I awoke to him wrapped around my head like a scarf. It’s possible he was trying to smother me to death, but really I think he actually liked me (or at least my body heat).
With Tennessee I had a kind of magic touch. When it was time to put on his monthly flea and tick treatment, I was the one who held him down and parted his fur. If we needed to catch him for any reason, that was my job. One time he had a salivary gland that kind of exploded out the side of his head. My stepdad, who had extensive experience in animal surgery, decided to clean up the wound himself rather than take the cat to the vet. I was the assistant who held the cat still while the procedure was completed. For better or worse, all of the time spent being tortured bonded Tennessee to me; he was a family cat, but we always had a special bond.
Van Gogh was an inherited cat that belonged to the parsonage of one of my dad’s appointments. He was supposed to be an outdoor cat, but Go-Go, as we called him, was not stupid. He eventually figured out that inside was warm. There was food in a bowl inside. Plus there were still mice to chase! What more could a cat want?
With Go-Go I couldn’t be quite as aggressive with my affections. His teeth and claws were sharper than Tennessee’s, almost like needles attached to powerful jaws. Where Tennessee left a raised welt, Go-Go drew blood. He did not like to be picked up, so I found other ways to express my love. The first task upon arriving at the house was to find the cat and pet him as long as he would tolerate. Go-Go liked toys more than Tennessee ever did, so I would find the closest toy and play with him until one of us got bored, usually me.
I did still have a magic touch with Go-Go, though on a smaller scale. When he got older he had a perpetually stuffy nose. Mucus actually clogged up his nostrils and you could hear him breathing through his mouth. When I noticed this problem I decided that this simply would not do. I grabbed some tissues and before he knew what was happening I had grabbed his head and wiped his nostrils clear. He didn’t like it, but he could breathe again. We repeated this procedure innumerable times and I always got it done without getting bitten or scratched. Similar to Tennessee, I think I wore him down and he just accepted his fate.
The third and current cat in my life is Moishe. (It’s pronounced moysh (like “moist” but with an “sh” sound at the end), or moy-sha if you want to say his full name. Moishe is Yiddish for Moses. Yes, I culturally appropriated my cat’s name. Apologies, but it was done in the sincerest admiration of Yiddish and those who speak it.) Moishe is the only cat that I actually intentionally picked out. I looked at a bunch of photos from a local cat rescue, decided I liked the look of him, and adopted him.
Moishe allowing me to pet him.
This was right at the beginning of the pandemic, literally a day or two before the lockdown. So this three year old cat who was accustomed to life on the streets of East Orange suddenly found himself locked in a house with people who never left, one of whom would not leave him alone. From the beginning Moishe was clear that he was not a snuggler and he did not like to be picked up. Also from the beginning I decided that I was going to force this cat to fall in love with me, no matter what it took.
For a several weeks if he wasn’t eating or pooping, Moishe was most likely found in the cat bed that sat on the window seat in the living room. From there he observed these strange humans, looked out the window, and slept a lot. Despite his standoffishness, several times a day I would go over to him while he slept and stick my face in his fur. He did not like this; I did not care. I would pet him as long as he’d allow before biting me. I tried playing with him, but Moishe isn’t big on toys that involve a human. He would always figure out that there was a human behind the toy on the string that he was chasing and he’d stop chasing the toy and attack the human.
The first few months involved a lot of scratches and bites. I have a lovely curved scar on my leg where he really dug in with a claw after I picked him up without his consent. But eventually we started to figure each other out. I realized how food motivated he was, so started using treats to make him come sit by me for a minute or so. I also let him sniff everything I was eating because 1) he was curious and wanted to see if my food could be his food, and 2) it got him close to me without me having to force him. He realized that I meant no harm by sticking my face in his fur, so he stopped fighting back. (He does still, to this day, immediately clean himself as soon as I’m done nuzzling his side with my face. I find this rude and passive aggressive, but it’s better than a bite on the head.)
Then, one night, he came upstairs and hopped on my bed. He slept on the far corner, as far away as possible from me, but he still slept on my bed. This was very exciting and encouraging. I began to bring treats with me when I went to bed to lure him up there with me. Eventually it just became a habit: I would go to bed and about twenty minutes later the cat would appear, curl up, and go to sleep.
This March will be three years that I’ve had Moishe. These days, despite himself, he’s pretty attached to me. Whatever room I’m in, he’s usually there too. When I get home from being gone for several hours he always comes to greet me. I can pick him up now without getting a hole ripped in my leg, though he sometimes gives me a little swipe as a reminder that he doesn’t love being held. He and I have an open door bathroom policy: if I close the door when I go in there he scratches relentlessly to be let in. When granted access, he comes to rub up against my legs and get some pets; apparently, in his mind, the best time to do that is when I’m on the toilet.
He’s still not a snuggler in the classic sense, meaning he will not crawl in my lap and fall asleep on top of me. But he does sleep with me every night now, regardless of temperature. Most recently he has started settling in up near the pillows, pressed against my chest or back, maintaining constant contact while we sleep. For all the attitude and glaring and acting like he doesn’t care about me, I’m pretty sure I’ve worn him down.
I do love cats. That makes me an ailurophile, so my stepdad tells me. That’s the fancy word that basically means I’m a cat-lady. But I’m not a cat-lady because I respect cats or think they’re the greatest animal on the planet. No. I love them because I can make them surrender to my will. As intractable as their species can be, I managed to get Tennessee, Van Gogh, and Moishe all to see the futility of resisting my affections. They didn’t just move in and love me unconditionally like a dog might: I had to earn their love. Cats are picky and opinionated which makes their affections more worth the earning in my estimation.
But for real, I do love dogs more. Gun to my head, I’d pick a dog over a cat every time. Nobody tell Moishe.
