Like Putty in His Paws...
I can’t believe how much having a cat has altered me.
We had pets growing up. Our family dog, various guinea pigs, a set of gerbil triplets, even a brief blunder with cockatiels (that my boyfriend had wanted, and I didn’t, but got stuck with). My folks took care of Snoopy (the dog) for the most part, and we took care of the other pets. I sort of enjoyed petting them and interacting with them, but not the work of caring for them. I was not fond of it at all. The daily grind of feeding and watering, and weekly cleaning of cages...I was not happy taking care of things. It was just another thing my dad made me do, because he was an ethical person who treated animals humanely. But then, I was a kid, and hell, I was lazy. A child may not be the best keeper of animals. Some may be, but I wasn’t one of those. It was impressed upon me what a responsibility it was to have a pet.
I’d never wanted to have a pet since, in my adult years, because of that very responsibility. Every day, feeding, watering, cleaning shit and piss...I wanted my days to MYSELF, man: to make art, or go out, stay overnight if I felt like it, to not have to worry about anything’s welfare but my own. I flew solo. I wanted to do what I wanted to do, always.
But somehow, something’s shifted slightly. I wanted Bix when I first made his acquaintance. REALLY wanted him. It flabbergasted me. What...what is this...? I thought to myself, you know, taking care of him wouldn’t be such a chore, because I WANT to take care of him. I could easily imagine him fitting neatly into my routines, into my life. When I took him home, I felt this desire to feed him healthy kitten food and give him clean, cold water, so he’d always have a full belly of nutritiousness and be well-hydrated. To scoop his litterbox every day, and clean the box and replace the litter every other week, so that he’d have a clean place to go when he has to. To play with him so he’d have fun and wouldn’t be bored in his little cat life. I felt the yen to make sure he has everything he needs to feel happy and safe in my world, so that all would be well for this little life in my clumsy, ridiculous hands. Take care of the little baby. It’s the same way I remember my mom talking about how she wanted nothing more than to take good care of me when I was born. Feeding me, changing my diapers, rocking me to sleep, keeping me warm and safe. She would say how she loved doing these things so I’d be comfortable and happy. When you love something, you just want to. You just do. And you happily do it all, for them. In fact, the act of doing it makes you fucking happy.
NOW, finally, at long fucking last, I get it. I GET IT.
We had pets growing up. Our family dog, various guinea pigs, a set of gerbil triplets, even a brief blunder with cockatiels (that my boyfriend had wanted, and I didn’t, but got stuck with). My folks took care of Snoopy (the dog) for the most part, and we took care of the other pets. I sort of enjoyed petting them and interacting with them, but not the work of caring for them. I was not fond of it at all. The daily grind of feeding and watering, and weekly cleaning of cages...I was not happy taking care of things. It was just another thing my dad made me do, because he was an ethical person who treated animals humanely. But then, I was a kid, and hell, I was lazy. A child may not be the best keeper of animals. Some may be, but I wasn’t one of those. It was impressed upon me what a responsibility it was to have a pet.
I’d never wanted to have a pet since, in my adult years, because of that very responsibility. Every day, feeding, watering, cleaning shit and piss...I wanted my days to MYSELF, man: to make art, or go out, stay overnight if I felt like it, to not have to worry about anything’s welfare but my own. I flew solo. I wanted to do what I wanted to do, always.
But somehow, something’s shifted slightly. I wanted Bix when I first made his acquaintance. REALLY wanted him. It flabbergasted me. What...what is this...? I thought to myself, you know, taking care of him wouldn’t be such a chore, because I WANT to take care of him. I could easily imagine him fitting neatly into my routines, into my life. When I took him home, I felt this desire to feed him healthy kitten food and give him clean, cold water, so he’d always have a full belly of nutritiousness and be well-hydrated. To scoop his litterbox every day, and clean the box and replace the litter every other week, so that he’d have a clean place to go when he has to. To play with him so he’d have fun and wouldn’t be bored in his little cat life. I felt the yen to make sure he has everything he needs to feel happy and safe in my world, so that all would be well for this little life in my clumsy, ridiculous hands. Take care of the little baby. It’s the same way I remember my mom talking about how she wanted nothing more than to take good care of me when I was born. Feeding me, changing my diapers, rocking me to sleep, keeping me warm and safe. She would say how she loved doing these things so I’d be comfortable and happy. When you love something, you just want to. You just do. And you happily do it all, for them. In fact, the act of doing it makes you fucking happy.
NOW, finally, at long fucking last, I get it. I GET IT.
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