By Christine MacIntyre
Giant ears disproportionate to the rest of his tiny body, beady eyes, a thin mousy tail, and tiger stripes. His name was Peppy, and he was the first kitten I ever called my own. My parents got him from a pet store, probably to quiet my constant nagging. I'd always loved cats. I visited my aunt often and spent time on the floor playing with her large orange cat named Mr. Jinx. I remember Peppy and Mr. Jinx as if they were still sitting before me and every cat after that. There's been many.
Growing up, cats served as my companions in a world where I often felt scared and lonely. A broken home, a disabled sister, and an introverted personality were a recipe for isolation. I spent a lot of time holed up in the safety of my bedroom or outside in nature, always with animals nearby.
At eight years old, I quickly bonded with my tiny furry friend Peppy who became my confidant and security blanket. He slept with me, nestled up by my face like a scarf. Tears landed on his fur nightly, but he loved me anyway. He always came back; his friendship never wavered.
He didn't question why I would cry when I had so much to be thankful for, nor did he tell me to stop. People did, though. I learned early on that my sensitive personality and intense emotions, specifically crying, made people uncomfortable. It was as if they couldn't digest that I was bold enough to show emotion in a world where emotion was frowned upon.
When the world felt like it was crashing down around me, cats were always the one steady part of my life. I've owned at least one cat, usually more, my entire life. Peppy, Pepper, Bunny, Tiger, Milo, Midnight, Sammy, Pudge, Olaf, Snowball, Chloe (and several of her kitten litters), Tiger (again), Moo-Moo, Freddy, and so many more. Most of them I got when they were old enough to leave their mom. Once in a while an ambitious cat escaped from the house and never came home. Losing a cat always feels like losing a piece of myself. I wonder if I take it harder than the rest of my family because of the profound bond I develop with them.
As a child, some people supposed to love, comfort, and protect me did the opposite. Instead of shutting down and locking away my emotions, I resorted to the creatures who most wanted my affection and who reciprocated it. In the face of violence or other horrifying experiences, I'd hide away with my furry friend and vent. My cat Bunny, who lived to be 19 years old, knew everything about me. More than any human has ever known. She sat with me through countless painful situations—abuse, neglect, accidents, divorce, betrayal. I laid everything out in plain sight, and I felt better partially because she didn't judge or turn her back on me. Cats act as a balm for life's challenging phases.
As an adult diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I adore my cats as much as, or perhaps more than, I did as a child. When I'm sad or scared or feeling insecure, I scoop my cat up onto my lap, knowing he'll fill the void that humans never could. My husband calls me a cat lady, and I am. I tease him and tell him I've turned him into a cat dad. When debilitating depression sets in and threatens to upheave an otherwise happy life, my cat Freddy serves as my best friend, shoulder to cry on, security blanket, and listening ear. When mania wreaks havoc, keeping me up all hours of the night, and racing thoughts interrupt work, Freddy is there to ground me. All it takes is the feel of his long plush fur and his steady purr. The fact that he follows me to bed, sits on the couch in my lap, and vies for my attention is more than I could ask for. Symptoms of bipolar are ugly, to put it mildly. I'm not always the easiest person to deal with, medicated or not, but Freddy is the one being who couldn't care less.
Admittedly, I've gone overboard with my cat obsession several times. As a teenager, I'd often sneak stray kittens into the house, where they would live unnoticed for weeks. I'd finally break down and tell my parents, or they'd find evidence, but it was too late by then. I'd have to keep them. Everyone knew how much I loved cats. I'll never forget the boyfriend who broke up with me, followed by a surprise delivery of a precious white fluffy kitten he'd found trapped in the wheel well of an old rusty car. He knew I'd love and care for him, and I was overjoyed—not only at the prospect of making this precious kitten my own, but for the meaningful gesture.
My kids are delighted every time I bring a new kitten home, although even they may think I sometimes overdo it. We did, after all, have eight indoor cats at one point. Nonetheless, I want to teach them that companionship comes in many forms. In my case, humans failed to do this repeatedly.
As an adult, I'm primarily accountable for my own happiness. I realize that other adults aren't responsible for making me happy, pleasing me, or keeping me comfortable. Life is exceptionally rough sometimes, but I know I have a loving companion to turn to when all else fails. Call me the crazy cat lady all you want, but I wish everyone experienced the unwavering companionship I have experienced with cats.
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