I named my orange and white kitty Elvis and he was the center of my world for a while. I spoiled the heck out of that kitten. He followed me everywhere, watched me get ready for school in the morning and even my boyfriend at the time was jealous of the attention he got (although that was probably more that guy's issue than anything). When I visited Japan during the summer after high school graduation, Elvis was offended that I left him for 3 weeks and wouldn't "speak" to me for a while. Seriously, the cat ignored me after I got home. Real mature.
Anyhow, Elvis was my buddy, my baby, for a few years. I think the real trouble began when I moved out of my parents' house at 21 and into my first apartment. I was allowed to have a cat with me but would have to pay pet rent to the tune of $40/month. To me, that seemed ridiculous. So I brought Elvis with me and just didn't tell the apartment people. Real mature. This led to me having to hide him whenever maintenance was done because I was paranoid they would find out about my illegal cat and make me start paying. Ah, to be young and have those lame worries again. I ended up having the beg my friends to take him when there was maintenance on the apartment and I don't think they appreciated that. Sorry guys. I started to get a little irritated about the cat. Also, it was a small apartment, I had a room mate, and I was busy. Elvis wanted my attention all the time (did I mention I'd raised him to be a very needy cat? yeah) and I was busy having college-y adventures.
Then I got pregnant. That was stressful. The cat dropped to the very bottom of my priority list. I believe he returned to live with my parents for a while while Tim and I shuffled our lives into a new townhome, worked in different cities, and y'know, prepared to become parents. When Lexi was born, she took up all of my time as well as my heart. We tried to keep Elvis out of her room, out of her stuff, off of the counters, and so on. My beloved kitty became a nuisance in a very stressful time of my life.
Eventually we moved into our house and it was great to have more space. Life was still busy as I was getting ready to student teach, Tim was working full time, and Lexi was in day care. The cat was starved for my attention but I was exhausted and didn't have any to give. Tim did, and for a while they were buddies. Then Lydia came. That was the end of my relationship with the cat. I was stressed to the max, overwhelmed simply with existing, and resentful of an extra creature to care for. So I decided to try and find him a new home. I asked my friends and family, put up a picture on Facebook and later, craigslist (and was completely chewed out by animal lovers because apparently that was the wrong thing to do), and I called shelters. None of the places I called were taking cats. One of them was even having a free cat weekend to try and get rid of the bunches of cats they didn't have room for. One sweet old lady was interested and I crossed my fingers...but that fell through. I was so frustrated and exhausted.
Elvis had begun yowling at night especially. I'd be up nursing the baby, would just crawl back into bed and fall asleep, and then wake up in a panic to what sounded like the baby but was actually the cat yowling in the living room. I was sleep deprived and desperate. He started yowling at the doors and I started letting him outside. He usually just crept around the perimeter of the house, watched the birds, and then came back in later. One night though, he never came back.
I wish I could say I looked all over for him, but I didn't. I felt relieved. Tim tried to look for him a little, but I told him to stop. Isn't that sad? I was so exhausted and overwhelmed by having a 2 year old and a newborn that I just had nothing left to give. I had changed, not the cat. Gone was the carefree 17 year old girl who could come and go as she pleased and had very little responsibility in life. I was a young mom with two kids who had no idea what I was doing. I had nothing left for Elvis.
We never figured out where he ended up. I am hoping he found a sweet old lady to lavish attention on him. He was a good cat. I feel sad now about what happened. Not only had I stopped loving my kitty, but over the past couple of tumultuous years, I'd started disliking and resenting animals in general. I didn't understand my friends who posted endless pictures of their dogs and cats on Facebook. I thought that was just plain crazy. Animals weren't children. So stop treating them like that. Ridiculous.
Then I met Pogo.
Pogo met Tim one evening while he was working out in our driveway. She hopped out from under the car and started rubbing against his legs. She reminded Tim of his college roommate's cat Chester, who he loved. He called me outside to see her. Then he came in and shut the door, but we could hear her mewing on our porch, and we let her in. It was then that I realized she only had 3 legs. She was a small black kitty and was super friendly. Too friendly to be a stray. She curled up on my lap and purred and all the sudden, I remembered that I did like animals. It was instant, just like that. Just like the title of this post says (thanks to my friend Kayla for the words) but my small black heart for animals grew three sizes that day. Tim went out and got cat litter and some food and she spent the night with us. She was super cuddly, playful and loving. She purred in our faces all night.
The next morning, the girls and I took her to a nearby vet to see if she was microchipped. We had fallen in love already and were planning to keep her if she didn't already had an owner. Well, it turns out, she did. She'd been lost for almost 3 weeks and had crossed a highway to end up in our yard! When the vet called her owner to let her know that her cat had been found, she was overjoyed and actually cried. I sort of felt that this was the moment I made right with the universe over what had happened to Elvis.
Anyhow, that's all it took for us to realize that we needed a kitten of our own. We picked up Arya from the SPCA a few days later and she is the perfect fit to our family. She tolerates Lydia's toddler ways (she's pretty much a furry toddler herself) and cuddles and plays with Lexi all day. Then at night, she comes and sits with me and purrs, just thankful to have a home and be loved. Now I myself am in a much better place. No more diapers and night wakings, no more exhaustion and I'm only overwhelmed the normal mom amount, as far as I know. I guess I hadn't even realized how much my heart had hardened. The other day an old childhood friend asked if my kids had the same passion for animals that I did...and I thought to myself, I had a passion for animals? Wow. I'd completely forgotten. But God worked on my heart and reminded me who I was, who I am. It's never too late.
Now I remember what it is like to love an animal. I'm so sorry that I forgot, but so glad that two black kitties helped me remember.
