Having kittens

aka How To Cry For A Whole Week

Some summers ago a lot was happening. I had just had a weird side fringe cut which meant I was in an unhealthy relationship with Kirby grips and I was having the path to my front door re-paved. Y’know, a summer to remember! John The Path Man came and started the work, and lots of people (two?) stopped to admire the very neat job he had made of the stone. I guess this is what it feels like to go viral? To be fair to John, credit where credit is due, I’ve never seen a bullnose like it. (I just wanted to say bullnose, was that obvious?)

John’s tenure coincided with a weekend trip I took to the Otherside of London to visit my pals, their kids and their dog. This combination of residents is important because whenever I stay I am a bit embarrassed about everything they manage to juggle with ease, and how little in comparison I can find overwhelming. I not-so-secretly envy their ability to jump into the unknown and embrace the spontaneous.

When I arrived, some new members of the family had been integrated with characteristic effortlessness; two skinny, slinky, inky kittens. Eggs and Sam were some of the best cats I’d ever met (including ones I grew up with for many years, offence intended, RIP, don’t dig too deep in the flowerbed back right). Originally acquired from a school-gates connection, they were welcomed in as handsome mouse hunters, but doubled up as a new obsession for the kids. Often, the unbelievably strong (and fearless) 3-year-old of the family would grip one of the cats from above, her arms fully around its rib cage, lifting it onto its hind legs, and would waddle with it from room to room. Maybe in spite of someone performing WWE moves on them repeatedly, or maybe because of it, they were super affectionate, cuddly, non-scratchy dudes.

All weekend, as I sat with alternating loud, purring balls of heat on my lap (does that sound bad on second reading? It’s too late) my friends campaigned for me to go with them to get the remaining two from the litter - “you never get to try before you buy with pets, but you KNOW these aren’t wankers” was the gist. I had been talking about getting an old, doddery, boy rescue cat for years, I was already vulnerable to the sell. And you really don’t want to end up with a rubbish one do you? It’s no life to return home to something hostile hissing at you from under the sofa. But enough about my exes etc etc. Is this thing on?! This felt like a rare opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a quality cat organisation. Although there was a high chance my friends were just fulfilling their obligation to recruit me as part of their feline MLM affiliation.

Whatever the motivation, I very quickly found myself in PetLand or Pets4U (or whatever it’s called), loading a basket with dry biscuits, a litter tray and various weird combinations of feathers stuck to ping pong balls.

From there my memory cinematically hard cuts to me shimmying under the bed of a very quiet, very tall man, who clearly wanted to get on with his work in the other room, but had to supervise me “meeting” the kittens. My friend made small talk about how well their cute siblings were getting on living with his family while I tried to charm them out. He was working hard to buy me time, but I knew I had to make a call. Lying on my stomach, in amongst a stranger’s suitcases and hand-weights, I decided…

Next scene of the movie Cat Lady; I am in a cab with the kittens in a carrier, on a dual carriage way. The kittens hate it, they are scratching and are crying. I hate it, I am not scratching but I am crying. Due to various traffic debacles and London being ridiculous, the journey takes 2 hours. Cool. Let’s not think about what that has cost, because the feathered ping pongs balls weren’t cheap either. Let’s just get these mad little things home and we will all feel better.

Oh shit! John Pathman is at home, with his beautiful bullnose. Thankfully he doesn’t know me very well, so he might think I am always red and blotchy and crying. Turns out John is a HUGE cat fan. He promises to bring his beloved (now deceased) cat’s play accessories for me and ‘the girls’. Thanks, John. Sounds great! I seem to be experiencing a major unravelling but…..another tea? Milkandtwosugarscomingupppppp!!

Me and the two in the box go into my kitchen, John waving from the doorstep, and plan the rest of our lives. The kittens, now named Jill and Anne, have to stay in one room to acclimate. They quite quickly go stir crazy, as do I. I decide my obligation as their guardian is to spend every waking moment with them in order that they don’t hurt themselves, get bored, turn into adult cats with behavioural issues, die. You might say that this resembles the early weeks and months of having a baby, I think that’s a bit of a reach, this was so much more draining and important.

During this period of learning to be a family, I cried A LOT. I briefly paused when I had friends pop in to visit my very hot kitchen (I couldn’t open the windows in case the cats jumped out). A few of them were noticeably confused by my attire and demeanor (Lost Property rejects, crazed). I didn’t have time to think about what I was wearing, the kittens couldn’t be alone. I couldn’t wash my hair, please see previous excuse. When the pals discovered I had been sleeping near the kitchen, “in case the kittens needed me”, their alarm palpably ramped. One of them just walked in, tripping over a play tunnel and other assault course items and put it right by saying “wow, well this feels mad”.

It was mad. But I didn’t know why. I went out one night for a friend’s birthday, and I got a different friend to cat sit. The birthday group ended up going to a pub opposite the Old Bailey which has a resident bar cat that wears a barrister’s ruff. I burst into tears again. A KC coughing up a hair ball, too much.

What on Earth was going on?

I attach a picture of the kittens telling me to stop crying, hilariously bleak. I can make light of it now (I’m sure you’re thinking, yes, PLEASE when will that start) but I was SO sad at the time. Really disproportionately overcome with the feels. The responsibility? The perceived lack of control? Change? At that point I didn’t know, but it made me feel really bad. The most baffling part was they were perfect cats; playful, affectionate, unbearably sweet when they slept wrapped up in each other in my fruit bowl. It made no sense, this should be FUN! Children get pets! This is not a thing an adult woman should be thrown by!

My brother rang me on Cat Day 6, I was still in a state. “Okay. I think you should feel a bit better by now” he said calmly, “what if I told you we could take them back, and the kittens would be fine, how would that make you feel?”. I burst into tears again. Which was my new way of responding to simple questions. I guess I would feel relieved, I blubbed. So the next day, he drove over and we took Jill and Anne back to the tall/quiet man. The tall/quiet man was impressively unmoved as I stood in his living room hyperventilating, snotting and apologising for my naivety and lack of resilience, pleading with him to understand that I wasn’t usually rash about things and I did take it seriously. He very very didn’t care. My brother took pity on us both and guided me by the shoulders out of his flat, otherwise I’d probably still be there now saying sorry.

The next morning, John arrived to do some Grade A pathing. He immediately asked me where ‘the girls’ were. I didn’t know how to tell him. I felt like a parent trying to break the news to their young kids that Grandma had gone to a better place. “They’re…having a holiday at my brother’s” I said feebly. They are on the farm now, John, they’re on the beautiful farm…

I didn’t tell many people about this whole bonkers moments when it happened, because, well, I was so embarrassed. It felt like such a small thing to be defeated by, when people are so stoical about things that are ACTUALLY BAD. But as time has passed, I’ve told a few people. And the most shocking response? It turns out, I’m not the only one! There’s a subset of pet owners who didn’t last the course. Okay, A SMALL subset, but still, it’s a thing. And everyone feels TERRIBLE about it.

I’ve reflected on my meltdown a lot now. And I think it was such a shock for two reasons.

1. I worried that failing at owning cats, was an indicator of a greater personal failing, it made me worry I was mean, selfish, pathetic…un-maternal? STOP JOINING IN!!?

2. At the time the kittens arrived, I lived on my own. They were supposed to make me feel like I had company, everyone said how nice it would be to have some tiny paws padding down the stairs when I got home. But I really liked living on my own, I didn’t find it too quiet or lonely at all. I found it serene and easy. I could go away for a night on a whim or stay out late (you know until, like, 10 or something) and no one would be affected. The kittens arrival highlighted the one thing I didn’t like about living on my own, that all the responsibility is always on you. Who didn’t put the bins out? Oh, ooops, that would be me. Who didn’t get more milk? Guilty! Who didn’t feed the cats for a year because they forgot? Arghhhh. Their welfare was in my hands only. There was no one to tag team with to take a shift. I now had a fixed routine and dependents, I had people (okay, kittens) to check in with and no back up. If I dropped the ball it was all my fault. And weirdly that felt lonely.

I told one friend this theory, feeling quite relieved that I had worked it through on my own and got to the bottom of it. He nodded throughout, which I mistook for agreement. When I had finished he said with light surprise “I just thought we all accepted that it was all about your breakup”. Oh. I see. Right. Did we? There was that. A few weeks before I got them. Hmmmm. I guess, possibly? That could have contributed. Maybe. Probably not. Unlikely. Seems a reach…

It was the break-up, wasn’t it?

Fuck.

Don’t get kittens heartbroken.

Do NOT get a new fringe cut either.

Just do something safe, just ring John and pave over the cracks.

Thanks for reading, less crying more laughing next time x