GET A CAT.

One of my all-time favorite headlines from the Onion newspaper, back in the ’90s, and a real mic-drop of a title. Still, it’s something you need to consider. (Here’s Jack, my friend’s cat, saying “I’m so worth it,” in his sexiest voice).

My college roommates had three cats, and though I was allergic it didn’t really matter. I had red eyes all the time anyway from staying up late and partying. I loved the cats. They were not the problem. Finding a place for the litterbox where the funk of turds didn’t permeate the whole house, was. I became a cat owner myself, because of the purring love factor. 

(Purr beats Turds like Paper beats Rock. Usually).

My first cat, Chevy, was the runt of the litter, dumb as a box of raisins but jet black and a real lover. The local drunk at the bar I worked at said his cat had kittens and he was trying to get rid of them. There was a river nearby; I wouldn’t have put it past him, not in a heartbeat. So I went over and picked one out, completely unprepared, at 2:30 a.m. after I closed up the bar. I took him home in my purse. It seemed the only logical option at the time.

After he developed an unhealthy relationship with my slipper (think Gollum and his precious- Chevy and my black slipper were very close) I decided he needed a friend. Cue Beaker, a dog in cat form, who fetched balls and communicated with his eyes and opened doors and put up with Chevy as one does a younger brother who irritates you but you have no one else to play with.

They were worth it. So much so that they traveled the world with us, from Wisconsin to Vancouver to Toronto to London back to Vancouver. And each apartment or home, there was a litterbox to deal with. In London, there was only one place for it, the front entrance. My guests were greeted with the appalling pong of crap right when they entered; it’s a wonder anyone ever came back. Most situations worked. The Kitsilano house didn’t; there’d been cats living there previously, and no matter how much I cleaned there was one concrete area of the basement that reeked of piss (Beaker tried to it mask with his own). This is not a good smell, cat pee. Once it’s there you’re sort of fucked. I don’t care how many enzyme-removing solutions you try, it’s almost better to move or burn the house down. We moved.

Because of this, People get dogs. 

Ok, ok, I know that’s not the main reason, but surely it is one of them? A big one?

Our good friends reminded us that they live forever. Or, almost, 20 years or so, which can feel like forever, when one of your cats is a puker (Beaker was, I get that). One of theirs got up in the middle of the night to jump all over the kids sleeping over, possibly looking for help, as it had ripped something in its ass and was dragging a bloody butthole all over the sleeping children so that when they turned the light on it looked like a horror show, kids upset and cat upset and everyone upset and this is just one of many tales I know of. Cats don’t really need you until they really do.

My daughter has been getting allergy shots for over a year in order for us to get a cat. We tried to have two more when she was little in the North Van house, but it became apparent that her allergies had not been seasonal, but cat-related, and all those drooly, snotty baby pictures were probably just her being allergic to the goddamn cats. We can’t speak of those two (Roscoe and Alice, I’m sorry) because they were gorgeous and lovely and my son was heartbroken, I think he would have traded his sister in if there had been a choice. 

We recently took care of a friend’s cat to see how she’s doing with the shots. She’s still allergic. And she had no inclination to scoop the poop, not at all, not even a little. 

“Whew, mannnn,” she’d say, and run away from the basically only job other than feeding and playing with them.

My internet bot-profilers scatter ads in my social media feeds about “life-changing” litter. Do they not know that I just cruise cat videos like a creepy voyeur? That I don’t own any cats at present, but just like to see the innovative cat tree ideas, the ones people make themselves that look like forest mushrooms or clouds? And has anyone actually found a miraculous litter? Doesn’t the fact they call it “life-changing” means regular litter is akin to something terrible, like a prison sentence, that you need to break free of? 

You can buy litter boxes concealed in fancy wooden caves, ones that have a self-cleaning rake that pushes waste into some inner anti-chamber as a deal-with-later function. You can get ones with steps or look like igloos or space pods. You can use powders and sprays to mask and conceal the smell, or you can let them shit in your neighbor’s yard and have them hate you instead. But Purr beats Turds? Doesn’t it? I’m not sure. For now, the best way for me to love cats is in my mind. It doesn’t cost anything and is pleasantly scent-free. Still, if you find this magic litter let me know, for when the allergy medication finally kicks in.