Stella and the Cats

I have a cat, and I miss him. I should be reading a short story for one of my classes, and I have a half-eaten burger in front of me, but I am thinking, only, of my cat. He is smooth—one brush of my palm against the back of his head and I was his, he was mine—he doesn’t really cuddle up to me, we just lay together, beside one another, in my bed. Sometimes the windows are open, and I watch the hair on his ears flutter. Other times, he settles his chin against the bony protrusions of my left ankle and purrs, eyes open. I’m not sure I would make a good pet owner—I don’t remember things, I neglect necessary duties, my medication piles up and I don’t take it. But he’s my parents’ cat, and when I come home—for break, for a night, for as long as I can—he’s there, and I’m here, and we bask in each other’s company. And, you know, I don’t really like cuddling. I’ve been touched and held before—of course I have—but there’s nothing quite like knowing someone (or something) you love is there, with you, because they choose to, and yet you do not touch, because you are existing while doing the things you both want to do, in proximity to one another. I think that’s why I like cats so much—they care, but they don’t. And we have a cat that cuddles—lord, does she—but she’s strange. My family thinks I dislike her—and, in the moment, I say I do. I agree. And I don’t. This is a cat—my brother’s cat—a small, defenseless, oldanimal that cannot do anything but walk around, get underfoot, drool, climb on top of our laps (at rather inopportune times), and meow, quite loudly. And eat, too, I suppose. She is very persistent, and very needy, and it is not the kind of personality I know how to handle. It irks me. Such habits and mannerisms are uncharacteristic of a cat, much less a person I can speak to and hang around. This is why I don’t like her—or, well. Don’t like being near her. She is too much. She needs me. I don’t know what to do about it. Maybe that makes me a bad person. It most certainly makes me a bad pet owner. I am willing to admit that. Bronny doesn’t do those things. He beats Seal up, sometimes (that’s her name; I’m not sure how she got it, other than the fact that she is very grey). It doesn’t bring me pleasure or happiness to see it, but I am detached from it all. Animals fight. Humans watch. Sometimes the roles switch. Oftentimes, even if the physical does, the psychological does not. I don’t know how to explain this philosophy. I mean, maybe, that we are all animals, but humans are inherently cruel, in a way everything else is not. It takes one to know one. I see it. I live it. I am it. I suppose I do like it when they are both in bed with me, laying there, asleep. It is peaceful. Seal is good company when she is quiet. Bronny is always quiet when he is in my bed—therefore, he is always good company. I guess I will say, I have two cats, and I miss them. Dearly. Distance makes the heart grow fonder, and lack of hairballs makes appreciation easier. Something like that.