The consequences of living with cats
My eldest cat Koosi, who prefers to be called The Mighty Goddess Bast, turns 13 this week. This is supposed to be the equivalent of a century in cat years but we don’t believe it: she is every bit as lazy and imperious as she was at age two. Her official birthday, by the way, is the day I met her; I don’t know exactly when she was born and cats are notoriously lax at keeping written records.
The addition of an animal to any household is bound to cause some changes, but Koosi and I adjusted to each other’s habits immediately. The adjustments I made seemed so painless I’m only starting to realize how cats have modified my behavior.
Koosi needed almost no toilet training — I showed her the litterbox (for non-cat people, this is a rectangular plastic bin lined with a trash bag and one-third full of absorbent clay with the consistency of sand) and she knew what it was for. Early in our relationship I saw an ad in an American magazine for a special seat you could attach to the toilet so the cat could use it without falling in. It was expensive, though, and I never got around to ordering it.
More recently I’ve seen ads for self-cleaning litterboxes: after the cat has used it, it automatically clears away the evidence. But I’ve gotten used to cleaning the litterbox myself, and the surprising thing is that I do not mind this foul chore. It’s like changing your spawn’s diapers, I suppose: it’s disgusting, but it must be done. Until Koosi moved in with me the mere thought of cleaning up another creature’s poop filled me with horror. In life one must choose which horrors she is prepared to deal with, and I would rather do this than drive in Metro Manila traffic. It takes less time and carries less risk of homicidal fury.
In retrospect it’s shocking how easily I accepted the task. When I was a kid my mother couldn’t even get me to water the plants. (Kids, it’s amazing what you can get away with if you do well in school. That’s one advantage of reading that adults neglect to mention). I could not bear being told what to do; I still can’t, which is why I live and work alone. Apparently I will oppose human authority but bend to feline will.
Besides training me in patience and obedience, Koosi has anchored me to the household. I thought I was going to travel all the time and come home only occasionally (my apartment still looks like a temporary camp, except that everything is covered in books and the cats have turned the furniture into scratching posts). Grab my passport, throw some clothes in a bag and fly away, that was the plan.
I do travel often, but with cats in the house I can’t take off at a moment’s notice. Arrangements have to be made: someone has to check on them every couple of days to make sure they’re not acting out scenes from Lord of the Flies. A very logical friend pointed out that cats can fend for themselves, so all I have to do is leave a window open every time I go on a trip. Koosi could go out and hunt for supper, then come back inside.
Good thinking—while I’m at it, why don’t I throw away my notebooks and just type everything on a computer since it’s more practical and less time-consuming than handwriting? Because I like using the penmanship honed by seven years in a Catholic girls’ school, and I like making a fuss over the cats. Let Koosi roam the neighborhood, cross streets and eat whatever she finds? Are you insane?
Even if I’ve left the felines in the care of the most dependable catsitters, I cannot be away for more than a month at a time. I can hear Koosi summoning me by telepathy. She probably isn’t, but one likes to feel needed and it is less stressful to be needed by cats than by humans. Among neurotics there is always the danger of self-absorption; having cats to look after keeps my mind off my own mind (I’m told this also works with dogs, fish, and other creatures). Or maybe the cats are an extension of my self-absorption: I’m discussing them when I’m really talking about me.
So happy 13th birthday, Koosi! You don’t need a cat whisperer—you are my human whisperer.
