11.18.03: A Trip to the Cat House ‹ Blog

One cat in a house is a sign of loneliness, two of barrenness, and three of sodomy.
Edward Dahlberg, Moby-Dick: A Hamitic Dream

A Trip to the Cat House

November 18, 2003

Yes, I am back from the Realm of the Mad. Well… I’m still there, but you can see me waving, whereas before I had vanished into the mists and you could only hear me scream. So… better-ish now. No more anxiety attacks, though I’ve had a fluctuating headache for a few days now, and OH MY GOD I HAVE A TEST TOMORROW AND I HAVEN’T BEEN STUDYING I AM GOING TO FLUUUUNK!

Oh well. Ya win some, ya lose some, I guess.

Today we went with my mother to a cat shelter to get a cat. (Well, we went to the cat shelter to get a llama, but then one of the volunteers working there pointed out how stupid we were, so we settled for a cat instead.) I would like to write something warm and inspiring about the cozy little cathouse (heh!) and the nice people who worked there and the friendly little blobs of fur that all captured my heart in their own individual ways, but to be perfectly honest I was too busy exchanging fisticuffs with a disgruntled white Manx with mismatched eyes to take notes on the atmosphere of the place. (I will return, Bobby the Manx, and when I do, I’m gonna poke your blue eye out, and then I’m gonna laugh like a maniac, and then I’m gonna poke your green eye out, and—oh, you’re not declawed? Um… never mind, then.) It came down to a choice between a coal-black Hemingway cat named Mittens (sounds clichèd, but you should have seen those paws!) and a little grey tabby named Elizabeth. Elizabeth was small and sweet and scared and new, so of course my mother chose her. Since I have a strong appreciation for independence and character, I personally preferred Mittens, because he ignored us the whole time we were there and seemed to think of himself as the boss of the shelter. Plus he was black, and black cats are just so Goth. I’d love to take Mittens home and teach him to run really fast across people’s paths, and then I’d let him out on Friday the 13th and he’d wreak havoc all over the neighborhood. Fun times, fun times...

So my mother’s got a little grey cat at her apartment now, and Elizabeth was adjusting nicely the last I saw of her. My mother probably won’t change her name, since Elizabeth seems to recognize her current nom. I’ve constructed a history for the cat in which she murdered her former owner and will probably murder my mother, and so I’ve taken to calling her “Lizzie Borden” and “The Countess Bathory.” She doesn’t approve, and neither does my mother, but eventually Elizabeth will learn that I’m only kidding. Maybe.

And speaking of animals, here’s a list of feral children. Just in case you ever wanted to read about the boy who was raised by ostriches.