How I become a childless cat man

I never wanted a cat, let alone multiple cats. But somehow I ended up with three. 

It all started with good intentions. Not mine. I’m selfish, cold, and calculating. Whereas, my girlfriend, Carolina, was born with a heart of gold, a deep love for all living creatures, and something the scientific community refers to as empathy.

That’s why, against my protest, she began feeding the neighborhood strays who occasionally showed up on our back patio.

At first it was just this one cat who would arrive at night and curl up on the outdoor sofa. We called her Martita. Which was a mistake. Never name the strays. Looking back, this was our first ill-fated step toward multi-cat acquisition.

But Martita was cute. And she asked nothing of us.

Still, Carolina would leave her a nightly bowl of kibble. It was a kind gesture. Which meant, of course, that something was bound to go wrong. That’s how life works.

For a while, everything was fine. Sometimes Martita would even present herself as a contributing member of the community and murder a rat.

Good girl.

But just when I had fully accepted Martita as our occasional outdoor friend with acceptable levels of bloodlust … word got out. I dunno. Maybe she got drunk one night and started flexing to friends about her new crash pad. Somehow, though, other cats in Grant Park soon learned our little secret: These humans had food.

Quickly, our patio turned into a popular soup kitchen for the furry and feral. 

The second arrival we named Otra. That’s Spanish for Other. She was the other cat. And I was at a creative low point.

Then there was a third visitor. We named him Trey. Because, you know … three.

Technically, his full name was Trey AnaCATsio as a cute way to pay homage to Trey Anastasio, the guitarist from the band Phish. Yeah. I’m one of those people.

Later, a fourth cat arrived. We named him Spot. Because he had a spot. And I was fully over it.

Nevertheless, we continued to feed the cats. We being Carolina. 

We - she - also fed at least two raccoons and a possum. It turned into a game. The outside motion sensor light would flicker on and we’d have to guess if it was a cat or miscellaneous wildlife.

Either way, they were taking advantage of our house and weren’t at all interested in getting to know us. If we walked outside the cats would scurry off under the fence, only to come back once the coast was clear. God forbid they make proper eye contact with these kind humans who provided them with warmth, shelter, and mid-tier, non-generic dry food.

These cats simply wanted nothing to do with us. Save for one. Trey.

TREY

Over time, Trey proved to be less scared than the others. His visits became more frequent. And, one day, we tested him by slowly going outside while he was eating. Trey looked up, acknowledged our presence, and continued munching away. We could actually stand there and watch him eat. It was kind of fascinating.

I’d never owned a cat. I’ve always had dogs. Big dogs. Great Danes. And with decades of dog experience I was no longer fascinated by their mechanics and mannerisms. Whereas cats seem like they were built by aliens. They’re bendy and weird, and seemingly obsessed with showing the entire world their butthole. Probably an evolutionary result from all the probing.

So we would go outside when Trey was around. I’d cautiously observe him from a distance while Carolina engaged with the wild animal through lengthy, one-sided conversations in Spanish.

This continued for a while until one afternoon when it started raining outside. Trey appeared on the patio. He looked at us through the window with these deep, concerned eyes. I was unmoved. But Carolina had reached her limit.

“What if he wants to come in?”

“He doesn’t,” I replied. I’m a delight.

In the ensuing days, when Trey would arrive on the patio, Carolina would join him outside and offer gentle visual pleas to me through the security camera. She knew I was watching. And judging.

Alas, on December 27th, 2023, Carolina finally won.

“Let’s just open the door and see what he does.”

“Fine,” I said. I was broken. Defeated. And mildly curious.

And wouldn’t you know it, the goddamn cat walked inside the house.

Now, in that moment I was secretly hoping for one of two things. The first being that Trey would act the fool and deem himself far too undomesticated to ever live within polite society. The second thing I was holding out for was that my lifelong cat allergy would flare up and give me another chance at an easy out.

Neither happened. Trey was sweet and polite and loving. And my eyes never watered. I had no more aces up my sleeve. We were going to have to keep this thing.

Which also meant taking it to the vet. Trey was already costing me money.

So, we borrowed a cat carrier and drove him to the local clinic where, to my amusement and to my amusement only, the desk receptionist uttered the words, “Is this Trey AnaCATsio?”

I giggled. 

Inside the examination room we checked Trey for a microchip. Nothing. We checked Trey for disease. Nothing. Then we checked Trey for a penis.

Nothing.

Trey AnaCATsio was a girl. This, of course, gave Carolina all the necessary ammunition she desperately needed to successfully argue for an official name change. Trey was out. As was CATsio.

But Ana was in. 

We settled on a slight variation - Anita - just to give her some Latin flare. Little Ana.

Also known as Anita La Gatita. 

ANITA

Over the next several weeks, our house was flooded with Amazon packages. All the necessary bowls and boxes and bouncy things for a newly domesticated cat. Anita had gone from slumming it outside to sleeping on the sofa and living large.

Though, perhaps a little too large. Literally.

Anita was (how do I put this politely) getting fat. And kind of quickly. When her little, tiny cat nipples started to become more pronounced, we suddenly considered that there might be a problem.

Carolina took Anita to her follow-up vet appointment and pointed out to the doctor that her belly was starting to feel a bit … thick. The vet agreed. Carolina texted me that the vet said Anita was either pregnant or just holding onto a huge turd. 

I feared the worst but held out hope for a massive poop.

The vet performed an ultrasound. And, upon returning Anita to Carolina in the waiting room, she smiled and said, “Congrats! You’re going to be a grandmother.”

Carolina was thrilled. I began contemplating the logistics of moving to Mexico.

A followup appointment was scheduled for X-rays. While the ultrasound confirmed that there was, in fact, something growing inside Anita, proper imagery would reveal just how many cute little reasons I would have to book a one-way flight to Guadalajara.

At this point, we were becoming minor celebrities at the clinic. Apparently they don’t get many pregnant cats. So it was a full team effort over there when we brought Anita back for an official kitty count. However, even with X-ray images, it still resulted in a split decision by the staff. Anita was either having five kittens … or four kittens and a world-class bowel movement. 

Once again I found myself rooting for poop.

Now, even though we were pretty sure we could pinpoint the exact date we heard her experiencing a night of passionate outdoor lovemaking, there was no real certainty as to how far along she was in her 65-day cat gestation. Which meant we were clueless as to when these little skeletons would actually emerge as kittens.

But I did look forward to hearing about the birth announcement from a cafe in the Plaza de Armas.

Another month went by. Anita got larger. More supplies arrived by Amazon. And we basically watched every YouTube video on how to raise kittens. 

Oddly enough, there’s not much to it. At least at first. Apparently, mama cat would handle all the work and know exactly what to do. Which was good. Left to me, I would’ve just shrugged and given them a small bowl of Gatorade. 

Finally, on the night of February 22nd, Anita started acting differently. She was restless. And clingy. Not to me, of course. She’d long figured out that I was useless. But Carolina offered warmth and reassurance in what seemed like an obvious moment of need. It was all happening.

And the timing couldn’t have been worse.

Carolina had come down with Covid. So while I was camping out in my hermetically sealed upstairs office - read: happily watching Star Wars and not wearing pants - Carolina hunkered in our bedroom where Anita wouldn’t dare leave her side. Anita also encouraged Carolina to join her in the closet where she seemingly felt safer and more comfortable.

That night, sick as she was, Carolina slept on the closet floor with Anita. And, the next morning, she was right there next to her when Anita officially went into labor. 

In my laundry basket. 

LABOR

Nevermind the soft, blanket-lined birthing box we built for her. Anita decided to park herself in a place she’d literally never been before and upon a nice shirt that I wouldn’t be wearing again any time soon.

I was still safely away in my office, protected from Carolina’s Covid as well as the siren screeches of a poor cat who had no idea what was happening to her body. However, I was still able to monitor things from afar. We had set up a security camera so I could watch it all on my laptop as Anita birthed her first kitty.

Just as everything we had read suggested, our cat knew exactly what to do. Anita bit off the umbilical cord, licked this tiny monster clean, and started nursing. Easy as that. One. Two. Three. 

And drama free. Unlike Carolina who burst out into the hallway where I could see her from thirty feet away. She was sobbing, “It’s so beautiful.”

My laundry begged to differ. But point taken. 

Nature and instinct were doing their thing. And it really was beautiful.

One down. Three (or four) to go.

The second kitty arrived about six minutes later. Then the third about 51 minutes after that. And, finally, her fourth baby emerged almost a full two hours after the whole thing began.

We waited for a fifth. But nothing ever came out. So we called it official: Four healthy kittens. Three tabbies - just like their mom - and one black and white tuxedo. Just like, I dunno … one of their dads?

This required Googling.

Now, I’m not here to slut shame our cat, but apparently it’s possible for a mother to be impregnated by more than one Tom during a heat cycle. It also could’ve been a genetic rarity. But I’d like to think it was the former, and Anita was just a popular lady in the neighborhood. 

Good for you, cat.

KITTENS

It took about a week for the kitties’ eyes to open. They were blue and beautiful. And, yes, I’m able to jump ahead a full week into this story because literally nothing else happened during this time. Anita never left the closet. We brought her food and water bowl upstairs and placed a litter box nearby in our bathroom. For both mama and her kittens, their entire collective existence was: Eat. Poop. Sleep.

Which is also my definition of a perfect long weekend.

But that’s what they were doing. And, y’all, there was no mess. I mean none. Mama cat takes care of everything. She stimulates them to go potty by licking their parts and then eats whatever comes out. 

Truthfully, for the first month we barely lifted a finger. Sure, we weighed the kittens periodically and changed out blankets from time to time. But other than that, we honestly didn’t do a single thing. It was all Anita. 

Then they entered their second month. And oh boy. Things changed to where each day became more insane than the one before. These little nutters were becoming agile and self-aware. I suppose, in that sense, they were already more capable than me.

We tried building barriers to keep them quarantined. But, at best, we only created a series of American Ninja Warrior challenges so they could tempt fate and cheat death. And at worst we were tripping over our own obstacles. Still, we more or less kept them contained to the upstairs part of the house while we began litter training.

This involved carrying the kittens to their tiny trays and assisting them with the motion of digging in the pellets. “Look, this is how you go potty. Just use your paws like this aaaaaaaaaand you pissed all over me.”

It was awful. 

Over time, the kitties learned to do their business in places other than our bed and chairs and folded laundry. But the idea of keeping them upstairs was becoming less and less a reality. They had turned into total anarchists. Especially Dark Tabby.

We had decided to not name them, but, rather, to call them by their physical descriptors. The boys were Dark Tabby and Light Tabby. The two girls were Runty and Tuxedo. 

We figured not giving the cats proper names would make life less emotional when it came time to adopt them out. Though, truthfully, I was fully prepared to feel nothing.

We’d have to wait 12 weeks. 

ADOPTION

The recommended time frame to adopt out a kitten is between eight and 14 weeks. Thus, I was ready to send them on their way at the stroke of midnight with the start of week nine. But Carolina wasn’t having it. So we compromised at 12 weeks. I mean, how bad could another month of kittens be?

Pretty bad, actually.

But, despite the chaos, it was during this time that I started to bond with Runty. She seemed to like me. And I’m easy like that. 

We decided we would keep her and give Anita a friend in the house, even if that friend was actually her daughter. I figured they’d have a special relationship and could share clothes and shoes or whatever. 

Finally, the day came to adopt out our first kitten. My friend Ryan wanted to bring home Dark Tabby, who was easily the most evolved. Dark Tabby was the first to do everything. Use the litter box. Climb a curtain. Venture downstairs. I think one day I even caught him reading James Joyce. 

He would do well in Ryan’s house, and his son and daughter would have the same youthful energy to match that of Dark Tabby’s curiosity. It was perfect.

But when they came over to pick up Dark Tabby, Light Tabby saw an opportunity. He pulled a power move and one-upped his brother by laying the cuteness on pretty thick. Ryan’s daughter asked, “Can we keep both?”

I wanted to hug her. 

“What do you think, Jerry?” He calls me Jerry. 

“I mean, I guess it’s OK. If you want both you can have both.”

This, of course, was a polite way of saying, “Jesus, Lord. Take three if you want. Just get them out of my house.”

So, in what seemed like a flash, we bid farewell to both Dark Tabby and Light Tabby - now to be known as Lenny and Carl, respectively. The brothers were off to their new forever home. And, once again, Carolina wept. Hell, even I felt a little something. I’m told that it may have been human emotion.

In an instant we had gone from five cats to three. And that’s how it would stay.

THE GIRLS

Tuxedo was in high demand from several potential adoptive suitors. But she also wasn’t quite ready to leave the nest. In my highly-scientific assessment, I described her as “not fully cooked.”

So, we kept her at home without reaching out to our potential adopters.

And it was just long enough for her to completely bond with Runty. The sisters had become inseparable. They’d sleep together curled up in cute little yin yangs. They’d wrestle. They’d even watch each other poop.

Mind you, I was still fully prepared to let her go. But, with each passing day, Carolina became more insistent that we keep both girls. Plus Anita. Three goddamn cats.

We went back and forth for a while. But the conversation more or less ended when we started referring to Tuxedo as Lima. She now had a proper name. Which meant (sigh) she was ours.

Anita. Lima. And Runty.

We decided Runty was actually kind of a fun name. So she stayed that way. Runty. Or Runticus Maximus when I’m feeling cute. And when she’s being bad - which is often - I change the R to a C.

That’s where we stand today. Mama cat and her daughters. I’m officially … a cat person.

I’m not ashamed to say it: I think I like cats. They’re curious. They’re goofy. They’re playful. And you get all the benefits of having a little foo foo lap dog without having to actually have a little foo foo lap dog. 

Runty, despite turning out to be a complete terrorist, has proven to be a master cuddle-bug. She’s my nap buddy.

Lima is insane. Still not fully cooked. A little standoffish. And her eyes seem to be popping out of her head. This cat is either amazed by everything, or completely terrified of the world. Maybe a little of both.

And Anita … Anita is still the queen of the house. She likes her privacy, but continues to be a great mom. The OG cat gets special treatment, for sure, and we make no apologies. She earned it. 

Anita found two dumb humans to take her in. She was a cat in need. And she played us like a fiddle. 

Somehow, it’s music to my ears.