Pitfall Cats

Cats Are Gaslighting Me

Confessions of a dog person

Yes, master. (Photo by Manja Vitolic on Unsplash)

I feel like I’ve always been a dog person, sort of. But now I’m 57 and I’m starting to like cats. I think. Maybe not. I’m not sure. It’s a little confusing. I’m a little species-fluid at the moment.

I find myself enjoying the sight of cats and kittens doing their thing. They’re interesting. That’s hard to admit.

I imagine they’re soft. They look soft. I’m not stroking them yet, because I’m still a dog person. Stroking a cat might feel like a sin. I can’t just go around picking up cats and petting them. Not even kittens. Not even the really cute ones. I don’t want to show anyone I like cats, especially not myself. Not yet.

And maybe I don’t like them. I’m not admitting to anything yet.

Though I think I might like to hold a cat and pet its soft head. And maybe play “chase the string.” That might make me laugh.

Cats are funny. But, still, I’m a dog person. So, I’m not playing with them.

No, not even you. (Photo by Tran Mau Tri Tam ✪ on Unsplash)

Our current cat congregation

We have a bunch of cats and kittens of different generations scattered in a 50-foot radius around our house because “someone” (the 91-year-old grandfather who lives with us) is dying and likes having cats and kittens around. He feeds them and spoils them, but he won’t spay or neuter them.

I’m pro-spay-and-neuter, but the guy is dying, so what am I supposed to do? It’s like his last wish or something. He wants them “the way they are” out in the wild (feral) and he loves seeing them in the morning cavorting. He says it makes life worth living. Jesus, what am I supposed to say to that? (We have snuck a few to friends, and, so far, he hasn’t noticed.)

We have nearly a dozen cats and kittens frolicking around our house. The kittens wander and play in front of my sliding glass door when I write. So they naturally attract my attention.

The backstory on me and cats

When I was a young boy in the 1970s, I think I liked cats more. I was a sensitive boy.

I probably wouldn’t remember this except for a photo of me with a black cat sleeping on my belly while we were both sleeping on the couch. I think I was in third grade and I think his name was “Snowy.” In the photo, his paw is languidly outstretched and touching my cheek. Pretty sweet. Probably my mom took the pic.

Me and Snowy. (Image by Mom?)

But I was allergic to cats. I couldn’t breathe. They gave me asthma. I think I remember being upset, not because I couldn’t breathe, but because I was afraid we’d get rid of the cats.

After a year or two of trying to have both cat time and breathing time, I think I gave up and opted for breathing. This was around sixth grade. I don’t think we had cats after that. Because of me? I can’t remember.

But we had a dog. A big black-and-white Malamute named “Sing” (he howled beautifully). Did I transfer all my animal affection to the dog? Maybe. But then Sing died when I was in 7th grade.

I was the one who found him. I was alone in the house when I went to pet him. He didn’t move. He was stiff — my first encounter with death. Maybe shock upped my connection with the canine world. I don’t know.

As I grew, I started to fancy myself as more and more of a dog person. Did I see dogs as more manly somehow? Presenting myself as manly was something I struggled with.

I developed a fantasy of life after high school that had me alone in the mountains with a pickup truck and a dog. The truck would be blue. And the dog would have a red kerchief around its neck. It would be a mutt. And I’d be a ski instructor, though I didn’t ski. But I had it all figured out.

Back then I was still an arch loner who couldn’t imagine a female companion in my life who would love me for who I was. Acceptance of my sensitivity wasn’t part of the game plan. In my fantasy, a dog seemed like a good surrogate for an understanding partner.

The pickup truck didn’t happen, but the dog did in my mid-twenties (when I had a female companion — my wife), and then later in my thirties when we had kids.

By this time, as a man, as a responsible husband with kids, I locked into my identity as a dog person. Was I being butch? Maybe — as much as I’m able to be butch, which isn’t much. This was also when I was trying to be less sensitive at work, so it was part of a whole thing.

So I poo-pooed cats and made it clear to everyone, including myself, that I was a dog person. Which was shorthand for “I’m not gay.” (As a sensitive outsider, I was called “gay” a lot as a kid, but that’s a whole other article.)

Stop judging me! (Photo by Pacto Visual on Unsplash)

Enter Millennials and Gen Z

I noticed that younger males (Millennials, at the time) were okay with cats. Like they had nothing to prove. I looked a bit askance at them petting cats and picking them up on their laps. “When will this younger generation learn,” I thought, “how to man up?” I never thought that consciously, of course, because such a dumb attitude would have been embarrassing for me to admit to myself. But it was there, somewhere.

The Millennial (and later Gen-Z) role model of cat affection stuck with me. Younger generations are more accepting of sensitive non-traditional roles. In many ways, I admire them.

Unfortunately, as a wizened Gen-Xer, I thought their “virtues” might only exist because they hadn’t been toughened up by life yet. Typical old-guy thinking.

But now I’m 57, with less to prove, and more appreciation of things that are simply alive and innocent.

And now, over the past year, this brood of cats and kittens has happened. So, through no fault of my own, new and different cute animals started peeking and play-pouncing in front of me in the mornings when I’d write, or when I’d sit outside drinking coffee. At first, I tried to be cold and ignore them, but, objectively, they’re pretty adorable.

Yeah, so they’re gaslighting me. And I’m not really happy about it, or at least I can’t really admit to being happy about it.

Birds and flowers, too

To be fair, it’s not just cats. I’m starting to notice birds and flowers, too.

Despite being pro-gay, somewhere from my boyhood I hear a bully jeering “Gay!”

But then I remember I’m 57.

Don’t old guys get a pass on that stuff?

I’m fascinated by a bird just doing its thing. Just hopping around on the ground and then flying away. Sometimes to a bouncy branch, sometimes up into the sky.

And flowers. Occasionally, my eye gets attached to a particularly beautiful flower.

These days, I find myself attracted to simple living things, perhaps because they’re not corrupt and yet still able to live. I’m not used to that. I’ve seen so much duplicity and ugliness (especially in the last ten years) that I think I’m hungry for something with simple goodness. Some living entity that shows how innocence can exist in the world. And flowers, birds and kittens seem to do the trick. They lower my walls and adjust my assumptions, even if momentarily.

I guess it’s just nice to witness living things in a state of loveliness.

And that’s what I’ll do for now. I’ll witness.

I’ll watch.

I’ll observe my cat and kitten friends from the periphery.

Until I gather enough courage to stoop down and boop a little wet nose.

I have hope. I feel their magical powers working. Their gaslight is strong and my resistance is waning.

One more “Mew” may be all it takes.