I don’t mind getting pigeonholed into the crazy cat lady stereotype. So what if people are not amused with my cat stories and my cats. These furry felines are pretty cute, much cuter than most people I know anyway so that fact alone should suffice.
So, when exactly do you call a lady a cat lady?
I asked Herson and he said, a cat lady is a spinster who takes care of a cat/cats (not necessarily a cat hoarder) the way she would treat her own child.
I am not a spinster. Too young for that. I call my cats my babies though..
Wikipedia.com says a cat lady is a single woman who owns many pet cats. It also states that cat ladies have been associated with “romance-challenged (often career-oriented) women”.
I have Herson and the two kittens. I am not even career-oriented.
On the street where I live, there’s this lady who feeds all of the cats in the neighborhood. I see her do this at dusk or early in the evening, when I am on my way to work (I work nights). She looks old, perhaps in her 70’s or 80’s, wears long dresses that reach past the ankles. She beckons the cats, “Miyaw,” with her baritone voice and feeds them out of a plastic bag full of cat food that she carries on her right hand.
That, I believe, is the very definition of a cat lady. I wouldn’t be surprised if I learn that she has dozens of cats in her home.
According to Wikipedia, a cat lady may also be an animal hoarder who keeps a large number of cats without having the ability to properly house or care for them.
I only have two cats, two adorable white felines with black spots on their back. I post photos of them on my Facebook and Instagram every now and then.. Okaaaay, I sometimes post like five photos/videos a day, no, not everyday. I ask Herson if he thinks I am posting too much. He says no at first with that knowing smile on his face so I ask him again and he says yes, you post quite a lot, while assuring me that no I don’t have to stop posting just because. Does that make me a cat lady? I don’t know. He says no but I am not quite convinced. Oh, well, it’s not the worst thing in the world, what with wars going on in the Middle East and hunger and terrorism and the refugee situation in Europe and singlehood in your late 20’s and China bullying its way into my country’s disputed islands. No, it’s not the worst. And I really don’t mind.
There’s only one instance (I think) that pretty much suggests that I am a cat lady. It was when I thought of buying a car for the sole purpose of bringing my cats with me during travel, so that they won’t be left on their own. They matter that much. 😹
But please I am not a cat lady. Not yet anyway. I would never put my cats ahead of my family. I may humanize them from time to time, feed them fancy cat food and peach-mango pie, but they still are these furry, selfish creatures who don’t really give a shit about everything that’s going on with the world as long as they get enough feedings in one day. As long as they have someplace comfortable to sleep. As long as they have their humans to pet them whenever they want to. And I really don’t mind. I can be selfish too and I sure love burying my nose on my cat’s soft, warm belly whenever I want to. It’s worth the trouble of hand-scooping their poo (with a plastic bag, of course) from the litter box. Worth the abandoned fancy scratching post, the money spent on fancy cat food and litter. Worth the ruined clothes or shoes or books and cardboard boxes and broken coffee mugs.
One thing I learned about being a hands-on cat owner is that, although mostly independent, cats don’t want to shit on their litter boxes until you clean after their last dump. No kidding. It is also true that cats nearing adulthood become very picky with food, become lazy and take more naps and cuddles.
While I am writing this in bed, my Panda walks (that mega slow walk) towards me and squeezed himself between me and Herson, purring loudly like an old fridge: a clear indication that he is hungry. He starts nibbling on my little finger and rubbing his cheek on my hand. I stroke his head, his back, his spine, his fluffy fur. I touch his delicate belly and feel his heart beating. He continues to purr. This.
You know what, I really don’t mind being called a cat lady at all.