What greater gift than the love of a cat?
Charles Dickens
This morning I took our kitten to the vet to be spayed and microchipped. I should say, I never wanted a kitten. My daughter G begged for one for years, but we already had a dog and a hamster so it was a hard no. Plus we’d heard horror stories about cats bringing mice into the house as “gifts” which made me nervous because G would want to keep those as well. Anyway, as with most things, she wore me down and a couple of months ago, Emma joined our family.
I can’t tell you how much I love this cat. Like, really love her. Even though we’re all covered in scratches from her razor like claws, we delight in her presence. So taking her to the vet this morning was traumatic…for me. Seeing her little pink nose poking through the carrier and hearing her crying meow. Her little sweaty (do cats even sweat) black and white paws resting on my hand all the way there. She didn’t understand what was happening and I felt so helpless because, try as I might, she doesn’t understand a word I say.
It takes me back
It reminded me of all the times I had to take G for her injections when she was small. Sat in the nurse’s office, the overwhelming smell of antiseptic mixed with damp mop. Watching the needle enter her little chubby little thighs, hearing the cries that followed. It got to the stage where I had to ask my husband to take her. Whereas I could feel her pain, he remained unmoved. With him, she didn’t even cry. I guess she picked up on my anxiety. I think the cat did the same.
This got me thinking about the other ways in which having a kitten and a kid are alike.
Now, I’m not allowed to talk about G. Or write about G. As a pre-teen, she is fighting for her independence. But she doesn’t read this so I’m sure it’ll be fine. The thing is, G finds everything about me mortifying. The clothes I wear, how l speak, how loud I breathe. “Why do you sound like you’re on a podcast?” she asks me whenever I try to impart any wisdom.
She hasn’t kissed me in public since she was 8 and even in private, her kiss is more like a headbutt. The more I push for contact, or conversation, or anything really, the more she pulls away. Similarly, Emma will only engage when SHE decides she wants a fuss (or I have a treat). She doesn’t react when I call her name. When I try to pick her up unsolicited, I end up chasing her around the room like I’m part of a Laurel and Hardy sketch.
While Emma physically ambushes me if I dare walk past her in my own home, I am emotionally ambushed by G’s moods.
It turns that I’m allergic to Emma. I get hives from her scratches, I can’t wear my wedding ring because of a rash on my finger and my lips swell when I kiss her. In contrast, G seems to be allergic to me most of the time.
But, if either of them throw any attention my way, I am disproportionately grateful.
It’s the little things
The other day, after the dog refused to go out for his usual morning walk on account of the rain, I climbed back in to bed. G was off school unwell and I wasn’t feeling 100 percent so I thought I’d grab 5 minutes. G must have been feeling particularly bad because, for the first time in ages, she climbed into bed next to me. She rested her head on my shoulder and hooked her leg over mine. I wanted to suffocate her with my love but managed to restrain myself. I’m learning.
Then Emma came in. Up until then, she’d never voluntarily lay on me. But this day, she circled around and plonked herself at my side. I stoked her until she involuntarily purred, a sound that I have come to crave, her paws padding my face. She pushed her head into my hand and stretched out, fully relaxed. We stayed like that, my daughter asleep on one shoulder, my cat purring away on the other. Too scared to move in case I spooked one or the other, I smiled to myself.
I had never been happier.
