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“You should reach out to her,” Parker suggests. “Maybe she can give Kitty some positive press and help bury all this other crap.”
“Yeah, maybe I should.” I don’t know what I’ll say, or whether a message from me will get seen by her, but it’s worth a shot. Anything to help right this wrong.
I send her a private message, introducing myself as the boyfriend of the Kitty Whisperer, asking if she’d be interested in meeting Kitty in person. And then I wait.
Over the days that follow, Kitty seems to fold in on herself. It gets worse when she loses a couple of new clients who tell her they can’t risk leaving their animals in the care of someone who abuses animals.
I manage to get the giant red X removed from the passenger side door, but she’s still mortified by what happened, and no matter how many new videos she posts to explain what happened in the park, the backlash and the negativity bury anything positive she puts out there. She nearly has a panic attack every time she leaves the house, and there have been a few times when people have yelled at her and called her names. She’s taken to wearing sunglasses and an oversized hat to hide her identity. And she refuses to drive her car.
It’s the middle of the week and we’re at my place, snuggled on the couch watching hockey. Kitty is dressed in a pair of jeans and one of my sweatshirts. “I don’t know how those guys do it.” She flings a hand toward the TV, then lets it drop to her lap.
“Do what?”
“Handle all the opinions people love to share. I could deal with the jokes and the occasional poking fun at me for what I do, and because I named my company the Kitty Whisperer. I could laugh it off then, because there was balance, and most of the time my followers would come to my defense, but this isn’t the same. It’s just crap piled on top of crap. Every time someone tries to defend me, they become a target. It’s awful. I can’t escape it. I’ve never been embarrassed to be called a cat lady, but this is so different. People aren’t even willing to listen. They just attack. And then to see all these people who were once on my side defecting over this one video, and it isn’t even accurate.” Tears spill over, and she pulls a tissue out of the sleeve of the hoodie to dab at her eyes.
I put my arm around her and kiss her temple, at a loss for what to say. I got a response from Brit’s social media, but it was a stock reply thanking me for the message and saying Brit appreciates my love and support and to keep smiling. I sent an email and got another canned reply. I even commented on a few of her recent posts, citing who I was and that I’d messaged her privately. Those messages got a lot of attention from her fans, most of it positive, but some of it just as negative as the stuff Kitty is dealing with.
“I’m sorry this is so hard, Kitty. I wish I could scrub the internet for you. I could tell you to ignore the haters and shut out the noise, but I know it’s impossible because they’re in your face. The people who truly know you support you.”
“I’m losing business over this. I can’t go anywhere without being recognized. I think I need to trade in my car.”
“You can keep driving mine until this all dies down,” I tell her.
She gives me a small smile, but her eyes brim with tears. “I appreciate the offer, but I know you must be getting heckled for driving it. I can sell it as is and get something used.”
Up until Saturday, Kitty’s business had been growing steadily, and now the opposite is happening. “Maybe give it another week before you make any final decisions about that, okay?”
She sighs. “Okay. I can wait a week. But I don’t think anything is going to change how I feel.”
I tip her chin up and kiss her softly. When she doesn’t pull away, I deepen it. If I can’t fix her problems, I can at least take her mind off them.
The next night I’m sitting in the arena, Josh on my right, both of us following the players on the ice. I keep an eye on the opposition, looking for patterns so we can gain the advantage and keep possession of the puck.
The seat to my right is empty and often reserved for the family members of the players who come to watch them play. A few minutes before the end of the first period Teresa, Beavin’s wife, drops into the chair beside mine.
