I think I have all the makings for becoming a crazy cat lady.
I used to love cats! As a kid I almost always owned a stray cat of one stripe or another. Zorro had a black mask around his eyes that made him seem mysterious and sneaky. He’s the only one whose name I remember of six or eight little fur balls that I loved.
A stray cat. (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
There was this Tom cat with bald patches, a short crooked tail, huge clumps of white matted fur and two different eye colors. That was on a good day. He would disappear for weeks at a time and return with injuries, sores, greasy fur and skinnier than when I’d last seen him.
I’d get him washed up, fed and snuggled into a blanket on my bed and then rub his ears to reassure him that all was well. He’d stick around for a month or two and then disappear again for a few weeks. On his return we’d repeat the cleaning ritual. After a few years he simply never returned from one of his forays. I like to think that scraggly Tom went out with a wild cat fight that matched his obviously wild life.
We adopted another scruffy stray when I had a toddler at home. This one I didn’t let in the house, but it got fed and watered and loved by my toddler. She was the one who came up with a name for it, “Suffer.” Seemed like a really appropriate name for a mangy stray who attacked the birds from my feeder and looked like he lived a rough life. Years later that toddler told me she got the name from cat in the Disney movie “Cinderella.” That cat’s name: “Lucifer.” Apparently to a toddler’s ears the name sounded like “Suffer.”
We don’t own or feed any cats anymore. MSH is allergic to the critters and I don’t have time or patience for one. Lately I just chase cats away from the yard. The overfed orange tabby I refer to is usually lying in wait for some hapless bird to get complacent and comfortable.
English: Orange tabby cat (Photo credit: Wikipedia)
So why do I think I’m ripe for becoming a crazy cat lady? Maybe the emphasis needs to focus more on the “crazy” and less on the “cat.”
Cats are only predictable in their unpredictability. You can’t count on them to snuggle you when you need snuggling, not like a dog, who senses a need and fills it. No cats are all about spontaneity and whimsy and fluffiness.
I’m unpredictable, spontaneous, whimsical and all too often focused on the fluffiness. I’m a dreamer with little follow through, a planner lacking energy. Stacks of papers fill surfaces like a litter box and things sit around half-finished, waiting for inspiration or desire to strike, like a cat waiting for motivation. It isn’t gonna happen.
At this stage in my life am I capable of scaling back or ramping up or finding balance, chi, inner peace, feng shui, enlightenment, reason, order or balance? Or am I one quickly becoming of those people everyone will want to avoid for her eccentricities?
“Crazy Aunt Kami, man was she ever weird, let me tell you about the time she…” they’ll say and I’ll roll over in my grave to listen to yet another story of my non-exploits.
Maybe if I got a cat, I’d be a little less “Crazy” and more “cat.” Sassy and content, carefree and clueless, living in the moment. Oh, and lots and lots of naps.
Actually, I think I’m already doing that, and that’s the problem. What circular thinking I have.
Maybe I’ll just be crazy. I think it’s unavoidable.
Kami's Beautiful Morning 