I have a confession to make: I'm a statistic. I am part of a very special minority group: "Unemployed Single Moms." Yes, folks, it's true -- your new girl blogger is lacking in one of those things most people have, where you get up and leave your house every day to earn a salary.
I've been out of work for over a year now, and I'm not any closer to landing a full-time gig than I was the day I got canned. While still keeping my name out and about in the fair city of Portland, media jobs are not easy to come by. My man Obama is working on extending that whole unemployment benefits thing, but until such time, I have to make do on the meager pittance bestowed upon me by the gummint (which, as my fellow unemployed brothers and sisters can attest, is only half of what I was pulling down before).
When I lost my job, I was basically responsible for myself, three other humans and one cat. My boyfriend, with whom I live, does not make a great living because--guess what?--he works in radio. My sons are here four days out of the week, the other three with their father. They're 11 and 7, both currently going through growth spurts. I can't keep up with them in pants, shoes or cereal.
The cat was a late addition to our family, one I held off on because I didn't want to take care of another living being. But two years ago this month, I got the urge. We visited the Oregon Humane Society, chose us a supercute orange tabby, and brought him home. He was neutered and micro-chipped, caught up on his shots and free of any parasites. We named him Desmond, after our favorite character on Lost (and, my older son pointed out moments after hearing the cat's name, he's also one half of the couple in the kids' favorite Beatles song, "Oh-Bla-Di, Oh-Bla-Da"). True to his namesake, our Des grew to be a total badass. We were besotted with him, as he was The Greatest Cat in the History of Ever.
Occasionally, the boyfriend and I would muse that Des needed a playmate during the day. We were both working long hours at the radio station, and our baby could get lonely. I couldn't imagine bringing another cat into our home at that point. I loved Desmond like I'd only ever loved one other pet in my life: Sandy Dublin. Sandy Dublin was our family dog from the time I was nine until she died my junior year of college. I've had other dogs since, but it wasn't like the thing I had going with Sandy. It was the same with Desmond. I'm sure you pet lovers out there don't need me to 'splain. No, I do not love him the way I love my children, but I do have it bad for this kitty cat (My friend Bridget Pilloud, a pet intuitive, has deemed him "the funniest cat" she's ever met. So there.) If we did ever get another cat, we agreed on Penny or Molly for a female, and Charlie for a male. But for the time being, we were a one-cat family.
Truly, Desmond had been a great companion to me in the time that's passed since last May. Day after day, he lurks behind my laptop as I continue my search for gainful employment. Petting him, hearing his light purr, is incredible soothing. The job worry is compounded by the looming bills: mortgage, car payment, utilities, basically everything that comes into this house. How much longer can I hold on before my "big break" comes... if it comes? How soon before I have to give in and take a job that won't fulfill me in the least, but will take care of all the monetary goblins that are haunting me? The thought of one more expense makes my stomach collapse and take residence somewhere in my chest cavity.
And so, when the group of neighborhood kids showed up at our door yesterday morning holding a terrified stray kitten, I immediately took him into my arms and knew he was ours.
The kids explained that they'd found him under a nearby car, crying. Only a few days prior, they'd found a black and brown female in the same place. Someone had abandoned a full litter nearby, it seemed. That other kitten had been taken in immediately by one of my son's friends. I'd thought she was cute, but I wasn't drawn to her like I was to this little baby. Charlie, I thought. I was done for after that.
I gingerly set him down near Desmond. The interloper's tiny white body looked like a large cotton ball next to my 15-pound guy. His eyes, slightly crossed, were a bright, curious blue. He yowled as he pranced around the living room. His tail was an exclamation point of ringed orange fur; he looked like Desmond's tail-twin. They could have been Brothers From Another Mother. He seemed like a scrappy enough lil' fella. Desmond let the new kid rub up against him. In my mind, it was a done deal.
My kids came running into the house, excited. "We're keeping him," I said, "and his name is Charlie."
They were exuberant. My older son literally cried with joy. My mother, on her last day of a visit from New York City, was delighted for us. We made a trip to the vet. Charlie was weighed (3 pounds!), tested for feline leukemia and AIDS (negative!), and checked out all over (surprisingly healthy for a stray!). We spotted a few fleas on him, so he was given a good med on the back of his neck, and we took him home. I tried not to think about the cost. The extra food, having him neutered, everything ... it of course adds up. But one look at that face and the worry disappeared. It'll come from somewhere, I told myself.
Upon arriving home, we discovered poor Charlie was just riddled with fleas. His white fur showed them, but made it tough to pick them out. We tried bathing him in the sink (that wasn't fun for anyone), but he was just covered with them, the sweet baby. By then, my friend Ann had arrived with her kids to meet my mom, but she ended up driving me back to the vet instead. More flea meds applied, and then Charlie was put into isolation inside his carrier in the boys' bathroom.
Three hours later, yours truly, who has partied with rock stars and Oscar nominees, was picking dead and dying fleas off of a still-shaking firepoint Siamese kitten. Exhausted from the day's events, the little guy passed out in my lap as I worked him over, literally, with a fine-toothed comb. "You are so totally HIS person," my mom said, as she observed him looking up at me. Once Charlie was deemed clean, he rejoined the family and immediately established himself by commandeering one of Desmond's mice-on-a-stick. (Inside joke to any fellow Losties: I joked to the boyfriend that I was going to write "NOT PENNY'S BOAT" on Charlie's wee baby paw.)
He spent the night asleep on my shoulder, tucked into a tiny ball of fur, his little motor going at full volume. I woke up every two hours, when he did, just as I had when my sons were newborns. I all but crawled to my morning yoga class, but I didn't mind one bit.
I fell in love with Charlie the same way I fell in love with Desmond. They both came into my life at a time when I was ready for them. Maybe Charlie is a sign of prosperity yet to come, a message from the universe telling me I can stop worrying and learn to love the cat. Or something. After all, pet ownership is supposed to decrease anxiety and other great things. Lexapro can only do so much, you know.
Charlie's got the right idea, though: kick back, let someone rub your belly, and relax. I'm going to try to follow his lead.
