The other day, my husband came home from work and proudly presented me
with a package. It was gift-wrapped in typical Mike fashion, meaning
that it was in the brown paper bag from the store of purchase with the
price tag still inside. When I was younger, this seeming lack of
care on his part used to upset me. Now I know it’s Mikespeak for
“I love you”.
Anyway, the package. I opened the Mikewrap and pulled out the plastic-encased
figure of a frumpy woman in a tatty robe and slippers. From the pocket
of the robe a kitten was peeking. Around her neck, almost hidden
by her unkempt hair, rested another kitten. Also included with this
action figure were six more cat figurines.
The package read “Crazy Cat Lady Action Figure”. My husband thought
it was the height of hilarity. After some moments of ineffectual
spluttering, even I had to admit it was pretty funny. I guess to
most people, even the person I live with, I AM a crazy cat lady.
They just don’t get it. I can’t assign any blame for this failure
of perception on their part, because generally I don’t get it either.
I certainly don’t feel like a crazy cat lady. I feel like the same
old me I’ve been all my life. No insanity here, no retreat from reality,
no firing of my shotgun over the heads of neighborhood children, I just
happen to like cats.
Sometimes people - and by ‘people’ I mean those heathen non-cat-people
that for one reason or another I am forced to interact with fairly frequently
- ask me just what the attraction is, why cats of all things. When
faced with such a query, I find my usual loquacious self completely stymied
and at a total loss for words. How does one explain something so
completely obvious?
I’ve tried to approach my obsession for felines from a logical perspective.
“They are beautiful animals.” “They are very smart.” “They
are low maintenance, especially when compared to dogs.” “They are
personable, affectionate, entertaining, etcetera.” “They are excellent
pets.”
What annoys me is having to justify my feline family, often to perfect
strangers. People seem to feel that it is perfectly fine to question
my judgement, my housekeeping skills, even my grasp upon reality, all based
upon the number of cats I own.
When conversing with a stranger who confides that they have 7 or 8 children,
it would be the height of rudeness to ask the question that automatically
pops into one’s head at this information. “Um, why?” It would
be even ruder to say, “Hey, they know what causes that nowadays.”
And it would be the pinnacle of tacky to suggest they decrease the size
of their family by dropping a few of the kids off at Family Services to
let strangers adopt them.
Why, then, is it all right for people to make the same suggestions to a
stranger who mentions that they have 7 or 8 cats at home? Do these
well-meaning but incredibly offensive strangers think that perhaps I have
no emotional attachment to my feline family? Or is it that they figure
that a person who chooses to care for nonhuman creatures must be - God
forbid - one of those Crazy Cat Ladies, and it is therefore perfectly all
right to offer unsolicited advice about their lifestyle?
Of late, I have come to realize that the opinions of rude people mean very
little to me. As soon as I hear advice from some know-it-all who
knows absolutely nothing about me or my life choices, I know that I am
in the presence of somebody with very little redeeming social value.
Why would anybody care about the opinions or take guidance from somebody
who thinks that cats, one of the loveliest of God’s creatures, are disposable
commodities?
Oh dear, I’m going off on a rant, aren’t I? The simple fact
is that I think cats are marvelous, miraculous creatures, worthy at the
very least of our respect, even our reverence. I love all cats in
the abstract, and I love my own cats on a more personal basis. From
my petite and dainty Precious, who scales great heights without the benefit
of vision, to my sweet and affectionate Roland, who I whisked off of a
cold shelter table and into my pocket as he was about to be euthanized,
they are each in their own fashion a source of comfort and delight to me.
There are few things better after a hard day than sitting down in my cat
room and being overwhelmed by the warm purring affection of my lovely cats.
Pity me for being a crazy cat lady? I pity anybody who isn’t.
