Today, I have to return a cat. It arrived unexpectedly last week in a kitty to-go box; my husband a daughter both beaming, with slight trepidation on how I would react to the new “family member” they had just adopted from the shelter. “A cat?” said I. “Yes,” they said and opened the box to reveal a beautiful gray, brown and black striped tabby cat. She had a black 
streak running down her back, a black tipped tail, and sea-green eyes.
The cat was sweet and scared. I was nervous about integrating another animal into our family of four plus a golden retriever. I had previously expressed these concerns to my husband:
streak running down her back, a black tipped tail, and sea-green eyes.The cat was sweet and scared. I was nervous about integrating another animal into our family of four plus a golden retriever. I had previously expressed these concerns to my husband:
“Cats can jump up on the countertops and dining tables – places you do not want animals to be.”
“They really cannot be trained like dogs, what if the cat has annoying behaviors, what do you do about that?”
“Will a cat use its litter box? And, if not, what do you do?”
“How will it get along with the dog?”
“Who will care for it?” (The obvious answer being me.)
Hence, after my long string of worries and uncertainties the cat arrived without my consultation or confirmation. Still a little uncertain, I decided to like the cat. I spent the afternoon shopping for essential items: kitty litter, food, a litter box, deodorizer, a collar. The cat spent the afternoon hiding under the bed in the guest room: a safe place where neither the groping and erratic hand of my two-year old or the dog could access it.
Within a few days the cat seemed to be adjusting, and I seemed to be sneezing and itching on a regular basis. And, from there it just got worse.
Hence, after my long string of worries and uncertainties the cat arrived without my consultation or confirmation. Still a little uncertain, I decided to like the cat. I spent the afternoon shopping for essential items: kitty litter, food, a litter box, deodorizer, a collar. The cat spent the afternoon hiding under the bed in the guest room: a safe place where neither the groping and erratic hand of my two-year old or the dog could access it.
Within a few days the cat seemed to be adjusting, and I seemed to be sneezing and itching on a regular basis. And, from there it just got worse.
I had always thought that people who claimed to have severe pet allergies were over-stating their case. It was a front, an acceptable way to not have to declare their true feelings (“I just don’t like animals” -- which is always seen as a heartless position to the bleeding-heart animal “parents” of the world, many who prefer their dogs or cats to their kids and often will admit to it – or “I am not willing or able to responsibly care for an animal” – the true sentiments of many a parent who is trying to convince their son or daughter that a goldfish is really an acceptable 
substitute for a puppy). But now, I wasn’t so sure. I was uncomfortable all the time, getting more congested – I felt that a small scale farming operation of springtime ragweed had just begun in my house. I knew I could not live with the cat.
I had never really lived with a cat before, so I had no way of anticipating what might occur to my sinuses when sharing my personal space with one. I had “owned” a cat before – twice actually – both times a gift from my husband. He had grown up with cats, being a child with parents with many excuses about why a dog would not work for them. I do not know exactly why he bought me the first cat. I really can’t remember. Perhaps the kitty was a way to make up for the only other pet I had ever owned: Ferguson.
I was five years old; it was a summer afternoon spent outside running and playing while my parents did yardwork when the neighbor walked towards our house carrying a cardboard box teeming with an energetic litter of puppies. A small, white male was selected, and I named him “Ferguson” – I think with some intended reference to the fact that he was furry. I had always had a fear of large dogs, but this puppy was a joy. I spent the rest of the afternoon running through the newly formed trails created as my dad cut away at the grass. The smell of summer; fresh cut grass and honeysuckle tickled my nose; the dog ran behind me, tickling my heels. I was enraptured, in love.
That night my parents helped me put the puppy in a box with some old blankets near the garage to sleep. Sunday morning dawned, and as I rushed downstairs to play with my puppy my parents broke the news. We could not keep Ferguson. He had cried all night; no one could sleep; they just could not handle having a puppy right now. As an adult, I now recognize the burden of a pet. There was certainly more than some whining that night, probably wet spots on the carpet, chewed items in the house, and there was my three year-old sister and one year old brother, as well as me, to care for. There was little room for less sleep and more messes in our family then.
The picture paints a thousand words. I am standing, a skinny, fair skinned child with curlers in my hair wearing a velour jogging suit my mom had sewn herself, holding my white puppy dog. My face is streaked with tears, my eyes red and puffy from crying. My sister, Erin, stands next to me looking rather bewildered as to the cause of the tears and the impetus for posing for the photograph. That was the beginning and the end of my childhood experience with pets.
I am certain that this emotional depravation from my formative years caused my loving husband, then boyfriend, to rectify all of my childhood hurts by buying me a cat. He was a very small kitten, a tiny black ball of fur with piercing blue eyes. He was the prettiest little kitty I had ever seen, and I named him “Solomon.” I loved the way he would curl up in a ball on my lap and chase items I dangled in front of him. But, he had been at my house less than a week when my four-year-old sister and I went to play with him and found him sleeping on my bed. As MaryEllen picked up his stiff body, I watched as the truth sunk in: my kitten was dead.
My dad buried him in the backyard. Later, Jeffrey tried again to buy me a cat. But, this time my dad did not want to have it live at our house. We compromised that it would be “mine,” but live with Jeffrey’s parents – a fact they loved to bring up if ever "Madison," a large, black cat, with six toes on each paw, was getting on their nerves. But, the day we dropped him off there, which was the day we bought him, the cat ceased to be my pet.
So, having never really lived with a cat before, I had little basis to know I possessed such a strong allergy. Despite being miserable, I balked at the notion of taking the cat away from my daughters and husband, all of whom were smitten. To be honest, none of my major worries had materialized. I liked the cat. She was not a trouble-maker, was adjusting well to the house, and would even let my daughters catch her sometimes. She liked to hiss at the dog periodically, and the dog would bark back, but even that was lessening.
My youngest daughter, Maggie, was struggling to even eat with the excitement of a cat in the house. Just as she would be about to take a bite of dinner, the cat would streak across the corner of the room, just in her line of vision. She would bound down from her barstool, running full speed and calling at the top of her voice, “Tat. Tat. Tat.” A chase would then ensue around the house until the cat found a bed, coffee table or similar piece of low-lying furniture to hide under. I would know it was over when the patter of feet stopped and full-scale wailing began; Maggie’s sobs broken intermittently to explain, “Tat, no reach. Tat, no reach.”
Mia was five and more measured in her demonstration of affection. She understood the concept, which was lost on her younger sister, that if she held still and quiet the cat was more likely to come to her. She had also spent large portions of the last few days on her belly in the guest room starring at, conversing with, and admiring her new cat. She spoke of nothing else. In carpool on the way home from school, to the dinner guests on Saturday evening, to strangers at the grocery store and the cashier at Walmart from whom we bought the litter box, she proudly announced, “I have a new cat. I actually have two animals now. My dog is a golden retriever, and now my dad and I got a cat.” When I first said I might be allergic to the cat, Mia stuck both her fingers inside of her ears. I was just bracing for the recommendation that I move out and they keep the cat. She did briefly suggest that she and her dad could find their own place to live where they could have their own pets, but I told her I was not to keen on that idea.
But, it was Jeffrey, my husband, that I most worried about hurting. The cat had really been his idea. His childhood had included a lack of the dog he always wanted, substituted for by two cats – Sophie and Ozzie – which he adored. They died in that order when he was still young, and it was not long after we married that we talked of getting a pet of our own. When we moved into our second apartment, where pets were allowed, we bought our first dog: a silky terrier that I named “Annie.” Annie was everything that a little dog should be. She was energetic, adorable, spunky, and temperamental. She did not like to be left at home alone. She thought she owned the whole street and, despite being under ten pounds, would bark at any other dog or human who attempted to cross near our home until they acknowledged she was boss. She would chase balls, but never bring them back. She would snuggle up on my lap to watch television, and on top of my legs at night to sleep. She was a delightful handful. It was out of guilt over Annie’s loneliness that we bought George, a Yorkshire terrier with a much more laid back personality. We would often joke that George was Annie’s pet, and in many ways he was. She still ran the household.
Annie found her way straight into Jeffrey’s heart. There was really never much room left there for George, even though he was the better behaved animal. We would take them on outings and buy all sorts of dog toys for them. We had them babysat, never kenneled, when we left town. Then, we had children.
The dogs were still loved, but never entirely okay with being demoted to just being pets. The demands of two work schedules, a baby, and law school began to take their toll. After our second daughter, Maggie, was born, I told Jeffrey something had to give. Annie and George were emotional basket-cases. They barked incessantly, waking the baby every time she napped. They ran off in different directions any time I opened an outside door, and since the yard was not fenced the regular task of corralling two small dogs and one precocious three year-old while holding a newborn baby was more than I could handle. My nerves were getting frazzled. And, I had little help in managing all of it as Jeffrey was launching the all-encompassing, ever-increasing, crazy-making schedule of a new associate attorney at a large law firm.
After Annie peed all over the bed where the baby was resting one afternoon, I finally convinced him that as much as I loved the dogs, they would be better-off with someone who could make them their babies, just as they wanted to be. With the new baby, Mia had a sibling other than the dogs, and I felt less guilt about the loss she would experience. I knew Jeffrey was reluctant, but since he was also unable to spend anytime with the dogs himself, I rationalized that it was his choice too. I ran an add in the paper, and found an old woman whose husband had recently passed away who was willing to take both dogs – an important condition to me. She had everything we lacked: a large, fenced yard, ample time and attention to give. We took some pictures, a little less sad than those with Ferguson, packed up all their supplies, and waved good-bye to our first two pets.
But, the hole left in Jeffrey’s heart on losing his first dog, even if it had been the right decision, mirrored the hole left in mine so long ago.
Six months ago, we moved to a large house with a large fenced yard, and adopted a golden retriever, “Lucy,” from the animal shelter with the intent of lessening some of the loneliness and loss our daughters were experiencing in the separation from home, family and friends. Lucy turned out to be a godsend: an ever patient, easy going animal who easily fits into our family life. But, Jeffrey still yearns for his own pet -- one that will curl up on his lap to be petted while he watches a movie, one that adores him uniquely – an Ozzie or an Annie. And so, we got the cat.
I have taken pictures: my daughters and the cat. They are smiling, not crying. Jeffrey is at work – he did not really want to say goodbye. I seem to be the most shaken up, probably because I feel guilty and responsible for the situation. I tell myself that there will be a multitude of times to have other pets down the road, but it does not ease the pain of the moment.
Jeffrey had already chosen a name for the cat before he found the particular animal he brought home. Chairman Meow. Mia wanted to name it “Tigery,” but Jeffrey told her he already had selected a name. Since Mia could never remember the name, we looked for nicknames that may more easily roll of the tongue: “Meow,” “Cherry,” “Tabby.” But, none stuck. In the days since the cat came home all anyone has really called it is “cat” or “kitty.” Maybe, it is for the best. Maybe, somehow, it was not meant to be; it never was intended to work out, and so without a name the cat will fade more easily into anonymity. There will be no “Ferguson, “Solomon,” “Ozzie,” “Annie,” or “George” to bid farewell to this afternoon. Just, goodbye “cat.”
substitute for a puppy). But now, I wasn’t so sure. I was uncomfortable all the time, getting more congested – I felt that a small scale farming operation of springtime ragweed had just begun in my house. I knew I could not live with the cat.I had never really lived with a cat before, so I had no way of anticipating what might occur to my sinuses when sharing my personal space with one. I had “owned” a cat before – twice actually – both times a gift from my husband. He had grown up with cats, being a child with parents with many excuses about why a dog would not work for them. I do not know exactly why he bought me the first cat. I really can’t remember. Perhaps the kitty was a way to make up for the only other pet I had ever owned: Ferguson.
I was five years old; it was a summer afternoon spent outside running and playing while my parents did yardwork when the neighbor walked towards our house carrying a cardboard box teeming with an energetic litter of puppies. A small, white male was selected, and I named him “Ferguson” – I think with some intended reference to the fact that he was furry. I had always had a fear of large dogs, but this puppy was a joy. I spent the rest of the afternoon running through the newly formed trails created as my dad cut away at the grass. The smell of summer; fresh cut grass and honeysuckle tickled my nose; the dog ran behind me, tickling my heels. I was enraptured, in love.
That night my parents helped me put the puppy in a box with some old blankets near the garage to sleep. Sunday morning dawned, and as I rushed downstairs to play with my puppy my parents broke the news. We could not keep Ferguson. He had cried all night; no one could sleep; they just could not handle having a puppy right now. As an adult, I now recognize the burden of a pet. There was certainly more than some whining that night, probably wet spots on the carpet, chewed items in the house, and there was my three year-old sister and one year old brother, as well as me, to care for. There was little room for less sleep and more messes in our family then.
The picture paints a thousand words. I am standing, a skinny, fair skinned child with curlers in my hair wearing a velour jogging suit my mom had sewn herself, holding my white puppy dog. My face is streaked with tears, my eyes red and puffy from crying. My sister, Erin, stands next to me looking rather bewildered as to the cause of the tears and the impetus for posing for the photograph. That was the beginning and the end of my childhood experience with pets.
I am certain that this emotional depravation from my formative years caused my loving husband, then boyfriend, to rectify all of my childhood hurts by buying me a cat. He was a very small kitten, a tiny black ball of fur with piercing blue eyes. He was the prettiest little kitty I had ever seen, and I named him “Solomon.” I loved the way he would curl up in a ball on my lap and chase items I dangled in front of him. But, he had been at my house less than a week when my four-year-old sister and I went to play with him and found him sleeping on my bed. As MaryEllen picked up his stiff body, I watched as the truth sunk in: my kitten was dead.
My dad buried him in the backyard. Later, Jeffrey tried again to buy me a cat. But, this time my dad did not want to have it live at our house. We compromised that it would be “mine,” but live with Jeffrey’s parents – a fact they loved to bring up if ever "Madison," a large, black cat, with six toes on each paw, was getting on their nerves. But, the day we dropped him off there, which was the day we bought him, the cat ceased to be my pet.
So, having never really lived with a cat before, I had little basis to know I possessed such a strong allergy. Despite being miserable, I balked at the notion of taking the cat away from my daughters and husband, all of whom were smitten. To be honest, none of my major worries had materialized. I liked the cat. She was not a trouble-maker, was adjusting well to the house, and would even let my daughters catch her sometimes. She liked to hiss at the dog periodically, and the dog would bark back, but even that was lessening.
My youngest daughter, Maggie, was struggling to even eat with the excitement of a cat in the house. Just as she would be about to take a bite of dinner, the cat would streak across the corner of the room, just in her line of vision. She would bound down from her barstool, running full speed and calling at the top of her voice, “Tat. Tat. Tat.” A chase would then ensue around the house until the cat found a bed, coffee table or similar piece of low-lying furniture to hide under. I would know it was over when the patter of feet stopped and full-scale wailing began; Maggie’s sobs broken intermittently to explain, “Tat, no reach. Tat, no reach.”
Mia was five and more measured in her demonstration of affection. She understood the concept, which was lost on her younger sister, that if she held still and quiet the cat was more likely to come to her. She had also spent large portions of the last few days on her belly in the guest room starring at, conversing with, and admiring her new cat. She spoke of nothing else. In carpool on the way home from school, to the dinner guests on Saturday evening, to strangers at the grocery store and the cashier at Walmart from whom we bought the litter box, she proudly announced, “I have a new cat. I actually have two animals now. My dog is a golden retriever, and now my dad and I got a cat.” When I first said I might be allergic to the cat, Mia stuck both her fingers inside of her ears. I was just bracing for the recommendation that I move out and they keep the cat. She did briefly suggest that she and her dad could find their own place to live where they could have their own pets, but I told her I was not to keen on that idea.
But, it was Jeffrey, my husband, that I most worried about hurting. The cat had really been his idea. His childhood had included a lack of the dog he always wanted, substituted for by two cats – Sophie and Ozzie – which he adored. They died in that order when he was still young, and it was not long after we married that we talked of getting a pet of our own. When we moved into our second apartment, where pets were allowed, we bought our first dog: a silky terrier that I named “Annie.” Annie was everything that a little dog should be. She was energetic, adorable, spunky, and temperamental. She did not like to be left at home alone. She thought she owned the whole street and, despite being under ten pounds, would bark at any other dog or human who attempted to cross near our home until they acknowledged she was boss. She would chase balls, but never bring them back. She would snuggle up on my lap to watch television, and on top of my legs at night to sleep. She was a delightful handful. It was out of guilt over Annie’s loneliness that we bought George, a Yorkshire terrier with a much more laid back personality. We would often joke that George was Annie’s pet, and in many ways he was. She still ran the household.
Annie found her way straight into Jeffrey’s heart. There was really never much room left there for George, even though he was the better behaved animal. We would take them on outings and buy all sorts of dog toys for them. We had them babysat, never kenneled, when we left town. Then, we had children.
The dogs were still loved, but never entirely okay with being demoted to just being pets. The demands of two work schedules, a baby, and law school began to take their toll. After our second daughter, Maggie, was born, I told Jeffrey something had to give. Annie and George were emotional basket-cases. They barked incessantly, waking the baby every time she napped. They ran off in different directions any time I opened an outside door, and since the yard was not fenced the regular task of corralling two small dogs and one precocious three year-old while holding a newborn baby was more than I could handle. My nerves were getting frazzled. And, I had little help in managing all of it as Jeffrey was launching the all-encompassing, ever-increasing, crazy-making schedule of a new associate attorney at a large law firm.
After Annie peed all over the bed where the baby was resting one afternoon, I finally convinced him that as much as I loved the dogs, they would be better-off with someone who could make them their babies, just as they wanted to be. With the new baby, Mia had a sibling other than the dogs, and I felt less guilt about the loss she would experience. I knew Jeffrey was reluctant, but since he was also unable to spend anytime with the dogs himself, I rationalized that it was his choice too. I ran an add in the paper, and found an old woman whose husband had recently passed away who was willing to take both dogs – an important condition to me. She had everything we lacked: a large, fenced yard, ample time and attention to give. We took some pictures, a little less sad than those with Ferguson, packed up all their supplies, and waved good-bye to our first two pets.
But, the hole left in Jeffrey’s heart on losing his first dog, even if it had been the right decision, mirrored the hole left in mine so long ago.
Six months ago, we moved to a large house with a large fenced yard, and adopted a golden retriever, “Lucy,” from the animal shelter with the intent of lessening some of the loneliness and loss our daughters were experiencing in the separation from home, family and friends. Lucy turned out to be a godsend: an ever patient, easy going animal who easily fits into our family life. But, Jeffrey still yearns for his own pet -- one that will curl up on his lap to be petted while he watches a movie, one that adores him uniquely – an Ozzie or an Annie. And so, we got the cat.
I have taken pictures: my daughters and the cat. They are smiling, not crying. Jeffrey is at work – he did not really want to say goodbye. I seem to be the most shaken up, probably because I feel guilty and responsible for the situation. I tell myself that there will be a multitude of times to have other pets down the road, but it does not ease the pain of the moment.
Jeffrey had already chosen a name for the cat before he found the particular animal he brought home. Chairman Meow. Mia wanted to name it “Tigery,” but Jeffrey told her he already had selected a name. Since Mia could never remember the name, we looked for nicknames that may more easily roll of the tongue: “Meow,” “Cherry,” “Tabby.” But, none stuck. In the days since the cat came home all anyone has really called it is “cat” or “kitty.” Maybe, it is for the best. Maybe, somehow, it was not meant to be; it never was intended to work out, and so without a name the cat will fade more easily into anonymity. There will be no “Ferguson, “Solomon,” “Ozzie,” “Annie,” or “George” to bid farewell to this afternoon. Just, goodbye “cat.”
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