How Many Ways Can I Skin This Cat?

Overall, I think I work pretty hard at the relationships in my life. I strive to be a good mother, wife, step mother, daughter, daughter-in-law, and friend. But there’s one relationship in my life that, I must admit, I’ve given up on.

Meet Emma, my cat.

Well, she’s not really my cat. (Here come the excuses). As a stray kitten, Emma followed my husband home from a Boston subway station many years ago, and quickly became a fixture in his life. My husband endured not one but two rounds of flea infestations in his home (we’re talking don’t-get-out-of-bed-to-go-to-the-bathroom-because-the-carpet-is-alive infestations) for that fur ball. Clearly, he and Emma had an instant relationship.

In the beginning, I loved Emma too. A teeny little thing with lots of fur and endless energy and affection, she was adorable. Then I moved in with my future husband and brought my cat, Molly (may she rest in peace). Molly -- older, more aloof and, well, cat-like – did not suffer fools. And to Molly, Emma was a damn fool.

Still, despite Molly’s stares of disbelief when Emma would try to chase the reflection of a mirror or my watch up the wall (I swear Molly would roll her eyes), the cats practiced relatively peaceful coexistence.

And then the babies came.

One little screaming pink bundle of joy, who within a year learned to get up and chase the cats, followed shortly by another little screaming pink bundle of joy. Despite the fact that my older daughter’s first word was “cat,” Emma and Molly were not amused.

In retrospect I think it wasn’t so much those wailing, tail-pulling, toddling beings that bothered the cats as it was the neglect. And Emma so much so more than Molly, who, in true cat form, could either take affection or leave it. Emma demanded it.

By the time my day was over chasing two toddlers, I was too exhausted to pet the cats. Emma would demand petting; she would jump up on my lap, jam her head under my hand, and rub her head back and forth against my palm, kind of self-serve petting. That annoyed me; here it was, 9pm, finally I had a moment to myself, and I had to do yet another creature’s bidding?  If I didn’t respond enthusiastically enough to her attempt to jump-start a petting fest, she would nip at my hand. And then she would fly off the bed as my foot escorted her to the floor.

Molly died a few years ago and Emma’s quest for attention intensified, but so did my exhaustion. By now she’s resigned herself to a life of affection that includes a little more than some self-serve petting every night (unless you count when the kids drag her onto their laps and hold her as tight as they can; when she waits for one small arm muscle to relax and makes a break for it). My husband – the true object of her desire – does practice some behind-the-ear scratching, but not nearly in the quantities she needs.

And so, she retaliates. And I am her victim. Throw up puddles grace my office carpet more mornings then not. Poop balls land in the center of various rooms each morning so that I, usually the first one to enter the room, step on them. My potted, floor-standing plants get extra fertilizer. I feed her, keep her water bowl full, take her to the vet, administer medicine when needed, clean and replenish the litter box and what do I get in return? A mélange of feline bodily functions.

I am resentful. I’ve spent too much money on carpet cleaning and kitty “attractant” for the litter box. In my finer moments, I’ve tried to open my heart to this cat; I ask myself “What would Jesus Do?,” I even made it a New Year’s Resolution one year to be kind to kitty. But, while I don’t wish her ill, I can’t muster the energy to be the owner she needs.

I guess you could say … I’m just not that into her.

Cara Garretson is a writer who lives in outside of Washington, DC, with her husband, two daughters, a step-son and a cat that's hangin' on by a thread. If you're a corporate IT manager, you can read her work on her day job, but you'd probably enjoy her DC Suburban Moms blog more.