The Cat Lady

Yea yea, so I am a cat lady, so what?

I live alone in a studio on the east side of Manhattan. I have a coffee maker, a nightstand with lots of half-read books, and yes, a cat. I know the stereotypes, believe me, I hear them all the time. And I understand that a lot of people don't like cats, claiming to be allergic to avoid contact with the "alien being," or just telling me "I like cats, I just would rather watch him than touch him."

People are always surprised that I am a cat lady. Given that my freezers contents consist of an oversized bottle of Grey Goose and ice, and that I have more wine than food in my apartment, one might be shocked to find out that I rescued and adopted a cat. Some people even ask me when I have time to spend with the little guy, being that I work almost 9 hour days, and have to "entertain" at night (clients or otherwise).

The truth is, I don't spend that much time with him, and when I do see him, I am usually 3 martinis in and am more concerned about the bagel that I am about to take down at 1am. This is why my cat, Sir Zigfried Weiss, aka Ziggy, is more of a gangster than a cat. He is pissed. He is pissed that I am rarely home, and pissed that I cannot commit to the cat lady life the way most cat ladies do. He is pissed that he is underloved and overlooked, and I can't blame him.

After seeing an Animal Planet special on a cat lady hoarder who lived and breathed taking care of felines, he realized, I am just not up to cat lady-par. He also realized that if he wanted me to be a better cat lady, that he was going to have to pull some trick out of his...paw, to get my attention.

When I get home at night, I am left to fend for myself. Ziggy has a white head band on and he is sliding ninja-style along the hallway wall, making his way to me, the resentment filling his eyes with controlled anger. We rumble, briefly. I am left with scratches that once the vodka wears off I know will sting, and I ask myself, what did I do to deserve this? I appease the lord of the cats with salmon flavored treats, coaxing him into forgetting that I have been gone most of the day. I see him waver in his trust, he bites, I bleed a little more, a tear rolls down my cheek, and I turn off the light and get into bed.

He stands on one leg (that's how ninja cats sleep), balancing on the edge of the bottom of my bed beckoning me through fluffed whiskers to play with him, tire him, to give him some freaking credit. But I am too sleepy, and wounded, and I fall asleep to the sounds of his frustrated sighs as he lays down to sleep yet another 8 hours of his existence away. I can feel his dissapointment and as much as I hate going to bed angry, we do.

Being a cat lady is no easy feat. The love I have for the furball outways the brief battles, and cost of Neosporin and Band-Aids each month. And I do have someone to come home to, domestic cat violence or not, he is always there. The best part of being a cat lady though is in breaking the stereotype. We are not all crazy, nor are we all lonley and desperate. In fact, I am far too tan, far too much of a lush, and far to busy to be defined as such.

I believe I have elevated cat ladies to a new place. A place where even if one choses to write an entire blog post about her cat (not sure who would do such a thing), she can still be considered to be full of life, and also respected for her love of the feline.