It's true:
I could never be with someone who didn't like dogs or cats. A preference for one or the other might be okay, but it'd depend on the person.
I went a date recently with someone who mentioned, at some point in the evening, that he hated dogs, and didn't really care for cats, either. And I thought: wow! I don't even want to be in the same room with you ever again. It was the way he said it; it made me realize that I am, in fact, an cat/dog person. Maybe I relate to them a little too much.
Not that I'd never realized it before- I have. I am.
I didn't have pets as a kid, not one. I don't have a pet now (though I do have a lovely roommate!); I'm like a traveler without a passport.
But as an adult, I've lived with a total of 15 cats, up to 5 at one time. Isadora, Paisley, Tigger, Sally, Maude, Velcro, Athena, Simon, Kali, Puck, Pook, Murpo, Jack, Magic, and Spike. (There were also the two kittens that one roommate got right before I moved out, but I won't count them.)
My first apartment had two cats. I was eighteen. At first I had trouble getting used to the pitter-patter and galloping in the middle of the night. Now, I hear noises, or I see shadows, and my brain immediately says, oh, it's the cat-- but there's no cat. It's sad. I am a ghost in an empty house.
I've still never had a dog, though there are several I've gotten to know intimately; my heart breaks with the memory of them, the same way it does with the one cat I loved best. The same way it does with the memory of the one child I let into my life, who loved me best, simply because I was there- and life can be that simple. These days, I wonder if I have the courage to let life be so simple.
I spent Thanksgiving dinner with some friends, at someone's brother-in-law's father's house here in the city. The house was full, full! of art- paintings, photographs, sculptures. A life's collection. The elderly father was a painter, and half the works he had painted himself- the rest were from friends. There were shelves full of books and a piano in the living room. A house full of history and love.
This lovely man has Alzheimer's. A woman lives there and takes care of him. A dry-erase board in the kitchen said, "Today is Thursday, November 27th, 2003. A. and S. will be here at 4. K. and M. will be here also, with friends." At the bottom of the board it said, "Michela passed away on March 22nd, 2002. A. and F. were at her bedside."
I burst into tears when I realized what this meant: he relives this, every day, who knows how many times; his life partner is dead, she is gone, and he needs the written reminder. A loss realized time and time again.
There was a cat there, who needed to be let in through the kitchen window over and over; a handsome, chinny, gray and white cat, a Cat Who Walks Alone sort of cat. I approached him in the living room, put one hand on his back, and another toward his tummy, and he slowly flopped over, letting my hand support his back. It surprised me- cats frequently let me approach them, but a tummy-rub at a first meeting is unusual. Various people told me about him- he'd always spent so much time outside, he was a big hunter; only in recent years did he welcome general petting and belly-rubs. Last week he took down a squirrel and brought it into the house. The son has two cats of his own, and he told me about dating women who would come over to his place and ignore the cats, and how he realized what this told him about them. We sat over Issa, who ignored us from his armchair. He clearly relished the attention he was getting from everyone tonight- it looked like an orgy at one point, several hands rubbing him at once- ears, stomach, nose- he'd shift his head every now and then: this spot now, please. I understood this cat, I knew exactly when he'd walk away, too much, just enough, time to move on, thanks for the turkey, gotta go back outside, no time for small talk.
