Early last week, I packed up Cletus for his distemper booster, and Como, because I wanted our vet to have a look-see and to give me some advice on the whole why-is-this-cat-so-weird? situation. For over a month now, Como has been living in our bedroom. Sure, she leaves our room to make a quick turn into the laundry room for her litter box, and she’ll venture down the hallway now and again. Several times, she’s been spotted in the kitchen, where she knows food preparation takes place.
People who belong to cats can relate; when a cat is hungry, it rubs all over everything associated with food, and mostly, its person. The rubbing is almost like seduction. “I love you, let me rub myself all over your face, so you will remember I am hungry. Look, I’m so cute, rubbing myself on the door frames. Oh my God, can you even tolerate the preciousness that is me rubbing all over your legs while you open those cans? Let me meow to you. I meow only for you, Human.”
This is what I’ve come to understand about my Como cat, but solely from the gut:
English is not her first language — her first language is one I can’t speak, because I’ve tried a few.
Someone once loved her very, very much, probably a man, because she has claimed The Mister as her person. She perches on him every single night, and sleeps at his feet.
She was a solo cat, who probably lived with a dog. She tolerates the kitten, as most female cats will, but she doesn’t like the other cats at all. She’s okay with the dog, always has been.
What the vet assessed from knowledge and experience:
She’s somewhere between the ages of four and ten.
Her teeth indicate a life without crunchy food. He is glad she eats crunchy food now.
She has allergies, which caused cysts of a sort in her ears, which make her ears too sensitive to touch.
She has chin acne. Tee-hee! Did you know cats get acne? I did not.
When I expressed my concerns about why Como doesn’t socialize, why she hides all the time, and how she basically lives in our bedroom, (what am i, nine?) and how I’m not sure, despite my love for her, that she is in the best possible environment, he seemed surprised that I felt this way. The vet assured me that her life is great.
I hadn’t considered the point-of-view he presented to me. She is adopted, rescued, safe, loved, fed, brushed, taken to the vet, snuggled and she has a whole room to herself, as opposed to a cage.
The vet said it’s not uncommon for cats to prefer singular lives, or to hide all day.
He said she may eventually roam the house and socialize, but this may never happen. He said the fact that she eats and uses the box and purrs is all he needs to know. “She’s happy,” he assured me.
I had only looked at it from the point-of-view of my own expectations.
So much of our reaction to life is based solely on our own expectations.