My Furry Little Muse

I was not a cat person. It’s not that I hated cats. It was more that I’m allergic to them and having grown up with a dog, I preferred dogs. For years, my son had begged us to get him a dog, but for various reasons, including my lack of employment, a dog wasn’t possible. But then, I finally started working again, and my son wanted a dog more than ever. He needed a pet. I knew that, but still our lifestyle—random weekend trips, long days away from home, and extended summer vacations—was not at all conducive to dog ownership. My spouse had, on numerous occasions, commented that cats were far more independent than dogs and could be left home alone for days, provided someone popped in once a day just to feed them, change their water, and clean out their litter boxes. She wanted a cat, but I was resolute. I refused to live with allergies. 

Two summers ago, my son and I spent three weeks on the road traveling through the Midwest. One night, we stayed at a campground just outside of Hannibal, Missouri. We got in late, as the sun was setting, and we raced to set up our tent before we lost all natural-light. In the morning, while I was showering, my son bought each of us a cup of coffee, and sat in the outdoor cafe petting the tiny kittens that lived at the campground. They were so small, and sweet, and adorable, that even I couldn’t resist giving them some love. That got me thinking. My son enjoyed spending time with the cats, so much so that we ended up lingering with them and leaving later than planned to visit Mark Twain’s house. He also needed a pet. Maybe it was selfish of me to deprive him of a pet simply because I didn’t want a cat. Maybe, if I took precautions—kept the bedroom door and my study door closed, didn’t allow any furry creatures on my bed, pet them minimally, and used Flonase regularly—I could avoid suffering from allergies. 

By the time I returned home, I had somehow convinced myself that we should get a cat. Not for me, but for G3. My spouse was ecstatic. She had wanted a cat for years. But first, we needed to complete the renovations on our new house. Serendipitously, they were completed right around the holidays, so we tasked ourselves with getting a cat for Christmas. We ended up adopting a feral kitten that had been trapped off Route 22. My son named him Kramer, after his favorite Seinfeld character. But the kitten and the character share absolutely no personality traits. Our Kramer is skittish and scared of everyone and everything. He spends most of his time in hiding. A friend’s son calls him the ninja cat which is completely appropriate because most people who have visited or taken care of him when we were away have never seen him. However, he is the sweetest most gentle creature and if we hadn’t adopted him he most certainly would not have survived a life on the streets. 

I had my rules in place for all of thirty seconds because the moment Kramer came into our lives, I fell in love with him and knew I wouldn’t be able to lock him out of any rooms. So much for simply tolerating the animal. What surprised me most was that I had no allergic reactions to him. Neither did Kati. To find out why, she consulted Google and learned that the protein in the saliva that causes the allergies is not potent at all in little kittens. As they grow up, the protein gets stronger. So, if you get a kitten young enough, you can actually develop an immunity to your own cat because as the protein develops in strength, it gives your immune system time to combat it. If only I had known that years before.

Kramer bonded mostly with Kati since she is home the most and patiently tried to lure him out of his shell. Even though we had gotten Kramer for G3, G3 still felt like he was petless since Kramer spent most of his time in hiding. Three and a half months after Kramer came into our lives, we took a brief trip down to Washington D.C. for spring break. Kramer missed us terribly. We know this because we’d watch him on the ring camera staring up at our bed as if hoping we might suddenly materialize and banish his loneliness. Not only did G3 need a pet who was present, Kramer needed a buddy to keep him company when we weren’t home. While G3 and I spent an afternoon at the National Cathedral, Kati looked for a kitten online. Days after we returned, we welcomed Bean into our lives. G3 named him Supreme Bean (beans are what you call the pads on their toes) but we just call him Beanie. Beanie is the opposite of Kramer. He’s loud and very talkative. He meows all the time and he’s very social. He loves to be with people and my son can cuddle him for hours.

Kramer loved Kati best and Bean would curl up in G3’s arms whenever he was lounging on the couch. Needless to say, the one who didn’t even want a cat was feeling a little left out and unloved.  Kati suggested we get another kitten. I objected. Three seemed like it would be too many—until last fall. Then one day at work, I went online to search out kittens who needed a home. When we got Kramer we learned that black cats are often the last to be adopted and the first to be euthanized or abused because of the superstition surrounding black cats. For this reason, I specifically sought out another black cat. (Kramer is black. Beanie is a tabby.) And that is how Dante—I named him despite Kati and G3’s objections—came into our lives on election day. When we first met, he was a lively little guy who absolutely loved playing with the fishing toy. He attacked the little furry worm with abandon, his jaw open, and his paws swiping wildly. I couldn’t wait to bring him home.

It must be frightening for tiny kittens—or any animal—to be removed from an environment that’s familiar and brought to a strange place by strangers. In order to give Kramer and Bean time to adjust to the new cat, we isolated Dante in my study. As soon as I opened his carrier, he scurried into the far corner of the room, trying to hide beneath my desk. I crawled after him and pulled him out, cradling him in my arms. Knowing he loved the fishing pole toy, I went downstairs to get it and he immediately charged, happy to play. At night, I stayed in the study so the little guy wouldn’t feel lonely. When my son outgrew his loft bed, opting instead for a larger, more grown up bed, I kept the mattress, putting in the study. I slept there and as soon as I turned out the light, Dante curled up in the crook of my arm. Safe and comfortable, tucked up beside me, he also went to sleep.

For several days, I stayed with him, letting him walk on my chest and shove his nose in my face. Bean and Kramer took a while to warm up to him, but now he follows Bean around, mimicking Bean’s behavior like any little brother. Kramer mostly tolerates him, but we have caught them on occasion snuggling together in one of the window seats. The three of them sleep in our bed, and instead of G3 feeding them and cleaning out the litter boxes as he promised early on, Kati and I split the chores. I have allergies—mild itchy, watery eyes, and my nose constantly runs—but the allergies are not as acute as they are when I’m visiting friends who also have cats. I don’t mind. I can’t imagine ever going back to a cat-free home. Even the commotion, the flurry of activity that often wakes me up on the weekends makes me smile instead of scowl. There is no doubt I love my fur babies.

But what I love most is at night, after dinner, when I go upstairs to spend an hour or two writing. I call for Dante (he’s the only one that responds) and the moment he hears my feet on the stairs he comes running. I hear the patter of his paws sprinting over the hardwood floors and he races past me, up the stairs, where he jumps up onto my chair then onto my desk. I keep a cat bed next to my computer, where he curls up to keep me company when he isn’t walking across the keyboard, demanding my attention. Sometimes, he hugs my arm or curls into my arms. Other times, he stretches and looks like he’s swimming as he swipes his front paws at the keys. Last week, he broke my laptop, killing the mousepad when he pounced on it. I was angry, but my anger was short-lived. He sat in his loaf and stared at me with his endearing eyes full of affection until I scooped him up, hugged him, and all was forgiven.

He makes writing a bit more challenging, but I can’t envision ever sitting down to write without the little guy purring in my ear. I enjoy the company and cuddles far more than I ever expected.