I hate my cat.
That’s not a statement I ever thought I would make. Looking back,
I’ve been a cat person for as long as I can remember. I always
thought the personality of the average cat was an extension of mine -
cold, aloof, intelligent, judgmental. I’m not sure how I
gaslighted myself into believing that these are positive traits to have
in a companion, but I digress.
For the first few years I had my cat - from when I got in the spring of
my junior year of high school, in 2018, until about 2022 - I loved him.
Even if he wasn’t as affectionate as I would have liked, he had a
habit of always cuddling with me when I was down, and never being too
afraid of me, and for me, that was enough. Eventually that changed,
though. I hate the way he claws at the carpet in the hallway in the
middle of the night to ask for food - granted, it’s better than
meowing like he used to, but not by much. I hate the way he runs away
from me whenever I walk toward him, stopping and turning to make eye
contact, then shuffling away into a quick trot, his primordial pouch
swishing back and forth like a bell. I detest the sounds he makes every
time he gets down from a surface - the solid thump of 14 pounds of fur
hitting wood, then the click-click-click of claws tapping across the
floor. I hate the way he vomits (and always onto the carpet), the muted
huk-huk-huk permeating from somewhere downstairs when I least expect it.
I hate his breath. I hate the way he sheds, producing clumps of fur with
every petting session until they litter the floor like dust bunnies,
coating everything with their soft presence.
In case it wasn’t obvious, I don’t take as good care of my
cat as I should. I feed him twice a day, give him treats when he asks
for them, and brush occasionally. The rest I leave to my mother, who
isn’t the best caretaker.
One day I’ll need to take him to the vet to get his teeth cleaned.
Supposedly he requires a professional cleaning to cure his gum disease,
which I’ve been putting off for about half a year now. I keep
telling myself every day that I’ll call the vet and make the
appointment, and every day, I hear the thumps, the click-click-clicks,
the huk-huk-huk, and I decide otherwise. Maybe in the future I’ll
be kinder, and get him the care he needs. After all, he’s middle
aged in cat years, around 40, and soon he’ll be a senior. And yet
privately, I hope that by the time he gets old, I’ll have moved
away, and I’ll have acquired a dog. I need a companion at this
point in my life, and unfortunately, my cat is no longer good enough.