I'm not the world's most enthusiastic or emotional person, I've noticed. Probably not even in the top ten. But one thing I do know is that I love my cat so damn much. I'd never had a pet with a personality before her, and that combined with me being the youngest child meant that until Lexie moved in with me there was a certain kind of love, the love of being relied upon, that I'd never known.
Sure I'd had men who thought they needed me, but when you're young and hearty that's not like being relied on, not like a child relies on its parents or the way I rely on my older brothers. Nothing had ever relied on me, not that I'd noticed anyways, not until Lexie, and I'd never loved anything the way you love something that relies on you. I'd always only felt the sort of selfish love of the youngest girl - a relying love, a love that didn't question whether or not it was loved back because it knew it was - and nothing had ever loved me like that. Until Lexie; I know she loves me like that, or the cat equivalent. And the love that responds to that - it's something very special.
Not to say Lexie's dependent. That's the thing about Lexie. I know that if I died tomorrow she'd be okay. She's a cat for god's sake, they've taken over Chernobyl. And not only is she a cat, she was a feral cat for years before she moved in, and was used to killing or foraging her own dinner. If I could just manage to break the window before I died, the thought has gone through my head on occasion, she would be just fine. She'd manage. I've seen her bat birds out of the sky, bash mices' brains out, nearly rip a raccoon's nose off once . . . And I'd look at friends' cats - noisy mewling clingy whorish things that would sit on laps and things like that, things Lexie wouldn't dream of doing, and I'd feel so proud of my cat, who wasn't a great big suck but who could still communicate affection as though she knew that you were both good and equal souls before the Lord, and you happen to be the one who brought home the kills for dinner. A little prance to meet you, a shivering tail, loving headbutts, company on the yoga mat and quiet staring until you brush her. That's all and it's plenty.
And now I'm moving to Australia, and have an awesome job and an awesome man and everything's awesome, and there's this horrible big fly shitting in my ointment, and that's that she can't come with me.
She could, though, and at this point it's even looking likely, despite the three months of quarantine that the vet warned me lots of animals don't survive. Because nobody wants her. Nobody wants this fucking awesome cat that I love. It hasn't been a worry up until now as a good friend in Canada was going to take her, but that fell through, and now the best offer I've got is a friend's father's farm, strictly as a working cat, with a bunch of other working cats - no more warm hearth, no more brushing - but maybe she'd like it? Maybe she'd like scrapping all day with other cats and kiling mice and hanging out in a barn? Would it be better or worse than three months in quarantine?
This is fucking brutal, you know, because she can't tell me which she'd rather do. I'm aware of how ridiculous that sounds, but you know, there it is, she's my cat. I basically swore I'd do the best I could to take care of her by adopting her, and here I am, considering which of two options is going to fuck her over less, and utterly unable to get her opinion on it, and incapable of knowing whether or not she is sufficiently attached to me to make it worthwhile to keep her in something as tortuous as quarantine for months.
And nobody wants her because she's not some crappy little cute kitten, she's an old fat cat who I love and think is the best fucking cat in the world. And people just want fucking ewok-faced cutey-pie Kylie Minogue type kittens who don't even know how to piss in a litterbox.