Welcome to my world (Sad News with Cat Cat)

There are three rules to literary spinsterhood. 1. You must write. (Some hardliners might argue that you must write but remain undiscovered until your death, but I’d rather disregard that particularly tendency amongst literary spinsters.) 2. You must be unmarried. Check. 3. You must live with cats. A single cat might be sufficient. But if you really want to do the whole literary spinster thing properly–and anything worth doing is worth doing properly, right?–you really need more than one.

I live with two: Jack and Cat Cat. They are demanding, destructive, adorable, obnoxious, and expensive. (The latter stems from the fact that Jack was diagnosed, after several months of lab tests, x-rays, and one really fun endoscopy, with triaditis–cholangiohepatitis, pancreatitis, and inflammatory bowel disease occurring at the same time). He now gets three pills daily, is on a special hypoallergenic diet, and we’re supposed to give him Vitamin B shots every other week. Rather than go into all the delightful details of feeding my cat through a tube in his throat for a week or emptying out my savings account for explorative surgery, I’m simply going to say it was a rough six months or so.

And that it was totally worth it.

I’m not equipped for small talk or cocktail parties or first dates or, really, much of anything that requires interacting with complete strangers (with the exception of work-related interviews, which I find that I really enjoy). Cats offer just the right amount of interaction and companionship. And, of course, if you happen to have a boyfriend who happens to get a kick out of following the cat around the house recording her sad mews, sometimes you wind up with something like Sad News with Cat Cat.



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