So, what happens when they get the kitten? Do they leave you by the side of the road?she asks.
Oh, no. Nothing that dramatic. They just ignore me till the cute, little kitten makes a mess. Then they remember me and how great I am at cleaning up messes.
How does the thought of being replaced by a cute, little kitten make you feel, Oliver?
Invisible? Used?
That’s so wrong. You should crap in your owner’s laundry basket,Cookie suggests.That would get their attention.
I would never do anything so inappropriate!I protest.If anything, I go to the other extreme. The more they ignore me, the more compelled I feel to curry their favor. I’m constantly torturing myself with my shortcomings. Like, maybe if I had opposable thumbs and could actually fold the laundry, they’d be more likely to bring me on vacations with them.
Do your owners know you feel this way, Oliver? And have you considered that they might be afraid of you? I mean, you are pretty perfect. I’ve never met a more competent cat. It’s intimidating. I’m scared of you.
How could a badass “Boss Bitch” like you be afraid of a stuffy, old cat like me? Your type eats cats like me for breakfast.
Looks can be deceiving.
She sends this message and then types some more. The three dots come and go, and after a bit, it’s clear that whatever she was about to say, she’s changed her mind.
Tell me more, Cookie. What is it you’re hiding?
Oliver, this can go no further than this chat …
Pinky Swear,I type, followed by a pawprint.
Well … I’m afraid that everyone will figure out I’m not really so tough.
Go on,I encourage her.
I’m nothing special, just your run-of-the-puppy-mill stray. I know how to take care of myself because I haven’t really had any other choice for most of my life. And I look out for my people too. But it doesn’t mean I don’t get scared. I’m so scared, Oliver. I’m afraid I’m going to let my people down. And if I don’t take care of everything, who else will?
You know I’ve got your back if you need anything, right? Not that I don’t think you’re up to the task. I’m just worried that you’re not sufficiently supported.
I pat my pocket, feeling for my keys. As if I’m going to jump in the car right now and go rescue her. From what? Or whom? A thousand silly scenarios flash through my imagination.
Ok, but you don’t count, Oliver. You’re a semi-fictional cat.
Fair enough,I concede.So why don’t you ask for some help? I’m assuming you have family and friends. Isn’t that what they’re for?
I ought to know. Saving the day for my family is my full-time job. Not that it brings me joy most of the time. It actually brings me a fair amount of bitterness and resentment. But my family is hardly typical. And it’s hard to know who your true friends are when you come from a family dynasty like mine. Everybody wants something. A piece of the Holm pie.
I find myself scowling, and I stop petting Oliver. He nips me gently, hoping I’ll continue. I lift him up and remove him to the floor. Then I picture myself growing old, alone, and bitter. It’s not a great vision.
Ironically, I didn’t feel bitter or resentful when I just offered to help Cookie out. I’d meant it. It was a genuine offer. This is a surprising gut check. Almost as surprising as the realization that I am kind of dying to help out this anonymous fictional dog. Some crazy part of me wishes I could rush in like a hero and fix all her problems.
Not because I have to. Because Iwantto. I really want to.
Cookie starts typing again, and I wait for the three dots to disappear as her message comes through.
I guess I don’t want their help because I don’t want them to have to worry. I want them to feel safe and protected. I want them to rest easy.
That’s really sweet in a way, Cookie. Who knew whata big softie you are under all that studded leather.
More like control freak! But I’m also afraid that the minute Ilet my guard down, something really bad will happen, you know? It usually does.
Like what?I ask.
I have this overwhelming desire to give Cookie a hug right now.
