Christy Writes: You Don’t Have to Be a Kitten to Be a Rock Star
I adopted a shelter cat last week. I adopted her for a lot of reasons, but mostly because – I’ll be honest – she’s old.
She’s a petite orange Persian who had been handed off to the shelter about a year ago. When I saw her face, I knew she was meant for me. She looked tired, sad, and vaguely irritated. I bent to pet her and she rubbed her head against my hand and began to purr. Then five seconds later, she batted my hand away and hissed.
I reacted to my editor much the same way just the other day.
“This one,” I told the shelter worker. “I want this one.”
“Just so you know, if you’re looking for a warm and fuzzy lap cat, this one isn’t. She’s pretty, uh… independent.”
“It’s okay,” I said. “I want her.”
The shelter said her name was Sassy, but it didn’t really suit her and she didn’t respond to it anyway, so I changed her name to Charlotte – after Charlotte Brontë, about whom I am in the middle of an in-depth study and writing project. I call her Charlie for short. That suits her.
There was no charge for adopting her since she’s ten – they only charge adoption fees for kittens. That struck me as a little sad. Also, have you ever had a kitten in the house? They’re adorable, four-footed royal pains in the neck who have one goal: making sure you never sleep. They should give us money to adopt kittens. Here’s the kitten, fifty bucks, and a refillable prescription for Ambien. No returns.
Anyway, all the way home, I was planning the myriad ways I was going to shower Charlie with attention and affection and better food than I eat most of the time. We would be best friends. Inseparable. Like Collette, I would lounge about literarily and compose epic novels with my loyal and adoring cat nearby.
Three hours later I was trying to coax her out from under the radiator in my writing studio while Dakota, our longtime and highly spoiled cat, watched with obvious disdain. He likes Guy better anyway. I left her there but went back every few hours to reach under and pet her. And every time, she rubbed against my hand and purred so loud I was afraid she was going to sprain her purr muscle. But she wouldn’t come out.
Later, just before bed, I went back into the room, put some Enya on the stereo at a low volume, and settled down on the floor. I reached under the radiator and petted Charlie for a moment. Then I leaned back against the wall and sighed.
“Look, I get it,” I told her. “It hasn’t been easy, has it? I’m in the beginning stages of a mid-life thing here myself, feeling like the vast majority of people I see are literally half my age, wondering when my knees started making so much noise when I walk up steps, looking in the mirror and noticing lines and shadows that weren’t there before. I get it. Sometimes I feel like I live in a cage too. But you know what? I think you’re beautiful. And I’m glad you’re here. I’m going to take care of you and you’re going to take care of me, and you and I going to prove once and for all that you don’t have to be a kitten to be a freaking rock star.”
This time when I reached under the radiator to pet her, she poked her head out and studied me for a moment, then came slowly out. Then she rubbed against me. Then she purred. Then I cried.
As I write this, the cat I was warned isn’t cuddly or friendly is sprawled beside me in my writing chair. Watching me. Purring. Yeah, she’s definitely a rock star.
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