Why being a Crazy Cat Lady just might be my destiny

I’m a little sensitive to the possibility of becoming a Crazy Cat Lady. They’re old, and sad and lonely. What’s worse is that they don’t even know it cause they think they are maintaining meaningful relationships on account of the interesting conversations they have with their furry friends.

I don’t want this to be me.

And I've already got the Crazy covered.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m already totally looking forward to getting to be one of those old people who get to sit on the porch and yell stuff at passers-by I disapprove of, and am eagerly anticipating that in the next few years that feeling of I don’t give a shit what you think about me will grow considerably.

But in the meantime, I’m a bit worried about ending up a spinster, which somehow seems to be a pathetic fate of a whole other level, if I also acquire a cat or five in the process. It’s not just about how other people will judge me – there’s a whole ‘lotta self-judgement going on here too.

The problem is: I like cats. And a future with cats in it currently seeming unavoidable.

It’s like they have a sixth sense and gravitate to me. They know. Adorable and destitute kittens (all over the world!) see me and think ‘ah-ha! That one! She needs me” and then they latch on, and I’m helpless to stop it. (Because although I don’t go looking for it, I kinda love it.)

But the stigma. The stigma! I can’t be a Cat Lady!

I’m also pretty sure it’s a slippery slope. Got one? It needs a friend. Then one more can’t hurt! Ah yes, three’s a bit tricky, someone always feels left out (I was part of a best friend threesome in elementary school and thus can relate) – better get a fourth… and so on.

My first time in Zim, 2 kittens adopted me and would follow me home – walking perfectly in line beside me, much to the amazement of the students at the dorm where I was living. I was in my 20’s and was a white girl in Africa so I had lots of boys drooling all over me. That made it ok.

In Malawi, we had Nali. He didn’t exactly show up – we have Janna to thank for his appearance - but I did love him dearly despite the fact that he was evil. He was a totally acceptable cat acquisition because I didn’t decide to get him; I just got to adore him.

In Juba, we have a family of cats living at the office:

• Preggers is always pregnant and bringing us new kittens to feed
• Scabbers has a nasty skin infection but is otherwise very sweet. Luckily she never seems to be pregnant, though it’s sad to think how it must affect her self-esteem that no one wants to shag her. It’s not like the infection is contagious
• Boris is one of the surviving kittens from the litter previous to the most recent one and is a crowd favourite. Turns out she’s a girl, but whatev’s
• Not Boris is Boris’ brother, who we like significantly less on account of the fact that he isn't Boris.

Again, these cats aren’t really my fault, they came with the job. Sure I bought them a water bowl so they wouldn't have to drink out of the bucket that collects soapy waste water from when we wash our hands before eating, but I think any reasonable person would find that a noble thing to do. Right?

In Benin I grew attached to a sweet kitten that we named Juba and upon my departure, left strict instructions that under NO circumstances was Juba to become anyone’s dinner. They could eat the other cats, but not Juba. Now that I'm in my 30's this is a bit more serious...

A couple of days after arriving in Kassala, a kitten showed up at our door, and while I was unabashed in my affection for this tiny, noisy, annoying creature, I fully recognize that I’m starting to tread into dangerous territory.

My colleagues who live here on a permanent basis are feigning resistance, referring to it as ‘that bonkers cat that we won’t give a name because then it’s like it’s ours and we don’t want it’, while dishing out tins of tuna for it to munch on because “well we can’t just let it starve now can we?”.

Before leaving the house for a holiday, my colleagues who “don’t want that cat” had the Logistics Manager give a “Cat Briefing” to all the house staff. How else could we ensure that in the two weeks no one would be at the house she would be given the right amount of milk and tuna, and wasn’t locked inside? She’s just a kitten. She needs us. (No one would be blamed for thinking we’re completely off our rockers.)

I was first to return to the house after the holidays, and the guards beamed with pride when they pointed out where the kitten was (before I was even out of the car), so the “Cat Briefing” clearly worked. However, I’m not sure what happened because I had to do an overnight trip and when I got back, kitten was nowhere to be found. “Did you take it with you?” the Kenyan I live with asked. Clearly I should have.

I searched the house. I searched the compound. I searched around the compound. The children waved and said “hello!” “hello!” “hello!” (and on and on) as they never seem to get tired of doing. “Hello! Have you seen my kitten?”

And then I had conversation with a random cat that was sitting outside the house. “Where is our kitten?” I asked. Stubbornly, it didn't respond.

The guard came to see what was going on. “I’m trying to find out what happened to our kitten” I said. He doesn't speak English so he didn’t know what I was saying, but there’s something transcendent about “crazy”, so he understood exactly what was going on.

 (OMG. A cat that I've never seen before just walked into my office and started crying at my desk. As I write this. I kid you not. I’m doomed).

When I got home from work the next day, the first thing the guard said was “no cat”.

The day after that, the guard smiled at me as he opened the gate “Two cat!” he said. And alas, there were two entirely new kittens awaiting me. They’re multiplying.

I suspect the guards planted them there. I suspect they saw that I’m old and single and pathetic and was oh so sad that we couldn't find the bonkers kitten, so they rounded up some new ones to bring some meaning to my life. And here, take two, so you have a contingency plan in case another one does a runner on you.

I wanted to yell at them. I wanted to tell them to get rid of the kittens, that my life was perfectly full without them and that there’s nothing wrong with being single and 30 (simultaneously) and don’t you know anything about the slippery slope?

But I didn’t. Because the kittens are kittens and therefore utterly adorable. Actually, dare I say we traded up from the last one in adorability.

I think that’s how they rope us in though. Kinda like men. They’re all irresistible at first and then somewhere along the line – once they know you’re attached – the façade is gone and you’re left with… cats.

I think single women end up with cats because they have all the makings of an unsatisfying relationship – you do all the work, you only get attention when it feels like it, and you better make sure dinner is ready on time - but somehow you’re getting something out of it, perhaps because, deep down inside you’re sure that it loves you, even if you have very little evidence in support of that claim aside from the fact that it keeps showing up.

I think that mostly they want to be left alone, but don’t want to be lonely. They’re keeping their options open. Maintaining their independence.  (I think I’m talking about single women AND cats here.)

Dogs beg you to love them.

Cats dare you to try.

I get that.

(I’m pretty sure I’ve been on both sides of that coin myself)

Who needs a man in their life to underappreciate-you when a cat can do a perfectly good job of it? Plus, they eat less, have excellent grooming habits and never leave the seat up.

My fate is not sealed, but I do feel a certain inevitability creeping in…

As with everything else, I’m inclined to blame my parents. At least a bit. Growing up we had cats so it’s like I’m genetically pre-disposed.

Still, a cat wouldn't make for a very inspired dance partner if you showed up with it at your friends wedding as your +1, and cats can’t open the spaghetti sauce jars (that I clearly loosened before handing over for assistance) or tell me that my “boobs look great in that top”, so I will fight off the slippery slope for awhile longer…

(Also, that cat that wandered into my office? The asshole just jumped on to my desk and tried to eat my leftover lunch.  If I’m going to have to share my pizza with you, I sure as hell better get a good snog out of you at the end of the night. And so the Quest For Mr. Right continues.)