I’m trying really hard not to feel like a bad person for not wanting my cat anymore. It makes me feel irresponsible and that makes me feel shitty. Because it’s not that I’m an irresponsible person…I just don’t like being responsible for stuff. There’s totally a difference…right?
I can’t tell if I’m emotionally attached to my cat or not. I think that’s making me realize something about myself that I wasn’t really super aware of before. I don’t really get attached to things. Tangible things, I mean. You know those people who still have a stuffed animal or some item from their childhood that they just can’t bring themselves to part with? I don’t have that. My room back home is basically stripped of anything from my more formative years. Why? I don’t know. I don’t like clutter and getting rid of things makes me feel good. I love feeling like I’m starting over. But I’m so pissed at myself for throwing out all of my high school journals because ugh I would love to go back and read them and re-live those ‘OMG WHY IS HE GOING OUT WITH HER???’ moments.
But would I consider my cat a “thing?” Is my cat cluttering up my life? Nooooo. I luv my cat. She has soft beautiful fur and her cheekbones are to die for. I’m just a lame-ass cat mom.
By the way, I HATE the word “attached.” It makes me feel trapped and tethered and I don’t like it. It’s not that I don’t love and care about people and some things, it’s just that I don’t want to say that I am ever attached to those people or things because I like to think that I am perfectly capable of getting by without them. Maybe I don’t like feeling like the other person or thing couldn’t get by without me and that’s a whole lot of pressure, ya know? Fuuuuuck I just opened up a can of worms and I’m closing it now.
Back to my cat.
I imagine a scenario in which my cat is gone. Maybe she was kidnapped (catnapped?) Maybe she ran away. Maybe she contracted rabies and I had to go all Old Yeller on her ass and put her out of her misery behind the shed. I picture these things happening and then I try to figure out how they would make me feel. Duh, I’d be sad. I’m not a heartless ice queen. But then I feel…relieved, almost. Relieved that I don’t have to buy cat litter or yell at her for clawing up the carpet or figure out who’s going to feed her when I’m out of town or any of those other chores that come along with being a pet owner.
What benefits am I getting from owning a cat? Health benefits? Bullshit. My cat causes me more stress than anything and I’m already a tightly-wound ball of nerves. Someone to cuddle with on cold nights? HAH. Last time I tried to cuddle with her, she bit my hand, leaped off my bed, knocked my water off the nightstand, and sprinted out of my room.
I’m too much like my cat and that’s why our relationship doesn’t work.
Is this what having a child is like? What kind of mother will I be? Will I have my kid for a year and then be like “Sorry, you’re stressing me out. I’m tired of taking care of you.” My child will probably end up like that monkey in that Harlow psych study with the wire mother who gives him food and the cloth mother who gives him comfort and even though the monkey received the physical needs to survive from the wire mother, he always chose the cloth mother because she gave him the comfort and love he needed.
AM I A WIRE MOTHER? I THINK I MIGHT BE A WIRE MOTHER. I’M SUCH A WIRE MOTHER.