I sometimes think about how different my life was B.C.
Before Cats.
I’ve looked around lately and wondered how I got here. I grew up thinking I hated cats, and I tested positive for cat allergies.
Then my husband and I found one while we were dating — a beautiful, gray short-haired tabby we named Shoe. We found him in front of a shoe store while window shopping one night. (Entertainment was sparse in the old days.)
After he mysteriously disappeared, it was years before Bacon came into our lives. The bob-tailed black cat found us in the woods during a nature walk one hot summer. He was the most friendly, personality-filled cat that ever lived. He liked to ride around on my husband’s shoulder. He also wreaked havoc on one neighbor’s yard and was on the animal control’s Most Wanted list, so we had to rehome him.
Ashton, aka Fat Cat, aka Ash, aka Big Orange, was another charity case. When he started nipping and chasing a co-worker’s daughter, she started fearing for her little life. He’s a big scaredy cat (and when I say big, he was 22 pounds when we got him; now he’s about 19) — he runs and hides when the doorbell rings — but he loves our immediate family. Ashton tolerates his brother, Rudy, our 16-pound outside dog, and his 8-pound dog cousin, Zorro, who occasionally visits.
I remember before we had cats, I had nothing in my closet but black pants. Now, I have a mixture of colors to hide the long orange hair. When I wear black pants, I have to be on my guard. I use my catlike reflexes to twist and turn so that Ashton doesn’t rub against me. When I’m sitting at the computer and he comes up, I draw my legs into the chair if I’m wearing black.
B.C., I was not afraid of seeing myself in broad daylight. Now, I might be well on my way to work or an event and look down at my pants or shirt and clearly see the cat hair.
I have a concealed-carry permit for my lint rollers. Big, small, the Saturday night special. I’ve got them stashed everywhere.
It’s especially awful if Ashton’s been outside rolling in the dirt. It wouldn’t be so bad if he actually cleaned himself like a normal cat, but his weight limits his range of motion. He has to brace himself on a wall to reach his stomach, and he tires easily. We actually have to give him baths. In the Jacuzzi. Then my husband brushes him and collects enough hair to make a rug.
Speaking of rugs. If you own a cat, it will throw up. Despite the fact that my house is 90 percent hardwood or tile, he prefers the zebra rug in the living room.
He is better now that we’ve changed his food. The vet thought Ashton might be diabetic; plus, he needs to lose weight. His cat food is crazy expensive. Something about putting cat food on a payment plan is just wrong.
I remember going to an interview once at a nice home, and the woman, who had at least two cats, had towels covering the seats of all her furniture. How tacky, I thought. How ridiculous.
Now, my husband knows the routine. When we’re having company, remove the beach towels that live on our couch and upholstered chair. B.C., I was a lot more judgmental.
Having a cat has its good points. Ashton loves to sit on my husband’s lap or be close to him, no matter where we sit. It is comforting to pet Ashton and hear him purr. He talks more than any cat I’ve ever seen, which is amusing.
I guess the question is — was I happier B.C.? No, so that’s the end of my tale.
Senior writer Tammy Keith can be reached at (501) 327-0370 or tkeith@arkansasonline.com.