For forty-nine years, I hated cats. No, that’s not entirely true. I didn’t hate them, but I didn’t exactly like them either. At some point in my youth, I developed a minor aversion to the furry creatures because their presence, when in close proximity, caused me a great deal of discomfort. Every time I visited someone who had a cat, my eyes became irritated—itchy and red. My sinuses flared and I couldn’t breathe properly. I spent my time blowing my nose and wiping my watery eyes. There was no way I was ever going to welcome a cat into my home knowing he or she had the power to make me feel so miserable. Besides, those litter boxes made the houses smell horrific and I struggled to function normally if I was surrounded by foul orders.
For some reason—only recently revealed in my autism diagnosi—bad smells affected me more severely than other people I knew.
While I was anti-cat, I did love dogs. I had a dog—a golden retriever—growing up and I adored her. A love of dogs runs in my family, and through much of my son’s childhood, he begged us to get him a dog. However, for the first twelve years of his life, I was either unemployed or underemployed, which meant we often did not have enough money to pay for our basic necessities. Not having much money sucked, especially since I hated denying my son something he desperately wanted. Therefore, I promised him that we would get a dog as soon as we could afford food and a vet bill. Needless to say, the moment I landed a full time job, he implored me to keep my promise, and not only do I hate breaking a promise, I despise disappointing my son, but dogs are a huge responsibility and not very independent. They require several walks a day and, with all of us out of the house for extended periods of time, no one would be home to let a dog out in the middle of day. Also, dogs cannot be left home alone for long weekends—and I love to get away whenever I can. Plus, summer is the time to travel, and if we had a dog, it would cost way too much money to hire someone to walk him or her multiple times a day for three, four, or five weeks.
I was in a bit of a quandary.
That first summer of employment, my son and I took a three week road trip together exploring much of the mid-west. One of our first stops was in Hannibal, Missouri, home to American author Samuel Clemens, known more famously as Mark Twain. While there, we learned a bit about Twain’s early life and how he incorporated his own experiences into his novels, specifically The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. My son, then thirteen years old, enjoyed exploring the caves that inspired Twain, the caves in which Tom Sawyer confronted Injun Joe and where he and Huck Finn discovered the treasure that made them both wealthy.
That night, my son and I stayed in a campground not far from Twain’s childhood home. In the morning, after a much needed shower, I found my son sitting on the patio of the coffee shop petting severa adorable kittens, kittens who didn’t appear to be more than several weeks old. He was enamored with them, as was I. Their tiny paws, fur so incredibly soft, and their blind trust of the human hands reaching out to pet them. My son wanted to take one home, but they were too little to be weaned, and I still could not fathom allowing a cat into my home. But we still had more than two weeks on the road, two weeks to dwell on their cuteness. Two weeks of listening to my son tell me that if I got him a kitten, he’d stop asking for a dog.Two weeks to contemplate what my life might look like if I opened my home—any my heart—to a cat.
When we returned home, I proposed the idea of getting a kitten to my spouse. She required no convincing. She had wanted a cat for years, and at one point even admitted that if we got divorced she’d get a cat immediately. To protect myself, I laid down some ground rules. Any cat entering my house would not be allowed in my bedroom or my study. I needed certain places in the house to be dander free so that I could retreat to them when my allergies overwhelmed me.
As for tending to the cats, I made it clear that under no circumstance would I ever clean out the litter boxes. My spouse’s biggest fear was that a cat would wake me up in the middle of the night, and considering how much I hated being woken up, considering the foul mood it always put me in, I would end up getting angry at the cat.
The day before Christmas Eve, we brought home a feral black kitten that had been trapped near th highway. My son named him Kramer after the character on Seinfeld. He was skittish and afraid of everything. The moment we got him home, he went into hiding. He was a sweet, gentle little boy, but he wouldn’t let us hold him and he didn’t like to be touched. Sadly, even with an adorable kitten, my son didn’t really feel like he had a pet. How could he when Kramer rarely made an appearance. I, however, had fallen so much in love with the kitten that within days I broke every rule I insisted upon. My bedroom and study door remained open and I had no qualms about cleaning out the litter box. My spouse was shocked that when Kramer inadvertently woke me up in the middle of the night, I didn’t mind—not even a little. We were also surprised that after a couple of months, I showed no sign of being allergic. Since my eyes weren’t irritated and I wasn’t sneezing, my spouse felt compelled to do some research. After a few google searches, she learned that kittens do not produce as much of the protein in their saliva that adult cats do. She also discovered that if you get a kitten young enough, before the protein is more potent, there is a potential to develop an immunity to your own cat. I have always had a good immune system, so this news was extremely encouraging.
Three months after we brought Kramer home, we went on a mini road trip down to Washington D.C. during spring break. The great thing about cats is they are semi independent, which is important when you love being on the road as much as I do. We bought an automatic feeder to dispense Kramer’s dry food and asked a friend to drop in once a day to give him wet food and to clean out his litter box. My spouse also set up a ring camera in the bedroom so we could keep eyes on the little guy and make sure he was doing ok. This camera she checked compulsively, and what we witnessed on the screen made us feel guilty for having left him alone.
Poor little Kramer looked so lonely, his sense of abandonment was almost palpable. At night, he would sit on our bedroom floor and stare up at the bed for hours as if willing us to appear. We decided then, watching Kramer watching the bed, that between my son not feeling like he had a pet, and knowing we could never leave Kramer home all alone ever again, we needed a second cat. While my son and I took a tour of the National Cathedral, my spouse sent queries to several shelters near where we lived.
Less than two weeks after we returned, we adopted Beanie, a tabby, into the family. My son named him Supreme Bean, and he was about as different from Kramer as two cats could be.
While Kramer was quiet, there were times Bean seemed to never stop meowing. He was friendly and curious, and he not only enjoyed us petting him, he tolerated my son cuddling with him for long stretches of time. My son finally felt like he had a pet and he was happy. But with Beanie bonding with him, and Kramer bonding mostly with my spouse, I—the person who didn’t like cats, the person who once swore they would never have one—suddenly felt left out. And that is how Dante, another black kitten, came into our lives.
This time I went online to search for a new kitten—not because I didn’t want an older cat who desperately needed love, but because I was concerned about my allergies and my spouse’s allergies, which it turned out were far worse than mine. Even with only having adopted kittens, she was on a daily cocktail of allergy meds and I was worried an older cat would seriously exacerbate her breathing issues. I contacted several shelters inquiring about black kittens, predominantly because I had read that they have the lowest adoption rate. Only one shelter responded and I immediately set up an appointment to meet the kitten who was ready to be adopted. I wanted to bring him home right away, but the shelter’s policy didn’t permit it. I had to make another appointment to return in a few days—which just happened to be election day 2024, a perfect time to embrace an emotional support animal.
I named him Dante. My family didn’t approve, but I liked the name and I thought it fit him. He was tiny when we brought him home, and since a new cat doesn’t integrate easily with other cats, we needed to keep him separate from Kramer and Bean while they had time to get used to him and adjust to having a new kitten in the house. Therefore, I took him into my study.
As soon as I opened the carrier, he jumped out and scurried under my desk to hide. Seriously, it must be scary and overwhelming to be so small and to be removed to a completely unfamiliar location. He didn’t know what happened, where the other kittens had gone, or why he was now in a strange place surrounded by strange smells. His body, in a corner behind the desk, curled into a tight defensive position, and he looked up at me with frightened eyes, but when I reached out for him, he let me pick him up. I carried him to the spare bed in the room and pet him until he relaxed a bit. Then, I took out the fishing pole toy to play with him and he attacked it.
For three nights, I slept in the study with him, not really giving him the opportunity to bond with anyone else. Each night, he tucked his body next to mine and I fell asleep listening to him purr. Yes, I am autistic. And yes, I have sensory issues that often make noises feel painful. A cat’s purr, however, is exceptionally calming. If I got up to go to the bathroom, when I got back to bed I’d find Dante curled up on my pillow waiting for me.
Dante is more affectionate than many cats. He loves sitting on laps and having hands pet him. And he does not discriminate. If there is a lap, he’ll sit on it. But at night, after a long day at work, when I head up to my study to write, I always call “Dante.” My voice and the sound of my feet on the stairs bring him running. He races ahead of me, stops at the side of my desk, glances around to make sure I’m there, and then he jumps up onto the cat bed that waits for him on the desk. Listening to him purr while I write is exceptionally soothing. When I pause to think, to determine what to say next or to figure out which direction I need to take a character, whether fictional or real, my hand wanders to his warm body and my fingers lightly brush his fur.
Sometimes his paws hug my wrist, pull my arm toward him, and then, his rough tongue grooms me. I don’t mind the licking, the wet saliva. Other times, he gets jealous of the computer and he stands up, stretches and then walks back and forth between me and the screen, begging me to pay attention to him, to keep my hands on him instead of the keyboard. Occasionally, he plops down in front of me, claiming his territory. I push the computer away and gently rest my cheek against his.
I lived most of my life without a cat, and that might be one of my biggest regrets. For an autistic person who craves sensory stimulation, nothing is more calming to me than a gentle affectionate cat with a soft rumbling purr that never quiets. When my fingers need to feel something soft, he’s there, eager to have my hands on his fur. Occasionally, when he puts his face in mine or slobbers all over me, my allergies will act up, but they don’t bother me, not really. I’d rather have itchy eyes and a loving presence next to me rather than no sniffles and silent emptiness. My spouse feared that a cat would set me on edge, make me grumpy or angry, instead he helps anchor and center me. Even when he’e being brat and knocking over my things or he makes a mess, I can’t get mad at him. My little one brings me too much happiness. They all do. And at night, Dante finds a warm spot between my knees or curls into my side and I sleep better knowing he is there. Sometimes, he wakes up and presses his nose against my face, demanding I pet him. I always do, it doesn’t matter how tired I am. Loving him is more important than sleep.
So often, as a parent, I make decisions that I feel are in the best interest of my son, putting my own needs on hold or making them secondary. My son’s desire for a pet, his need to love and care for another creature, were more important to me than not suffering allergies or living with an animal I didn’t think I’d like. In this case, I put my son first, and I have never been happier. I can’t imagine ever again living in a home without purring and the constant chaos of cats.
© Elizabeth Jaeger
Elizabeth Jaeger's memoir Stolen: Love and Loss in the Time of COVID-19 is due out in September with Unsolicited Press. Her essays, short stories, book reviews and poetry have been published in various print and online journals, including Margate Bookie, The Doctor T. J. Eckleburg Review, Caustic Frolic, The Blue Nib, Capsule Stories, Watchung Review, Ovunque Siamo, and Italian Americana. Newtown Literary published “The Treehouse,” which is a chapter from her novel in progress. She is a Pushcart and Best of the Net Nominee. You can find her at https://www.elizabethjaegerauthor.com.
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