The Kitten and the Old Man

My daughter envied the relationship I had with my cat.

When she was born, he had already been with me for close to six years. It wasn’t an ordinary relationship. In a world full of uncertainty, he was the stone that kept me grounded. He had seen me through multiple boyfriends, multiple moves, and so many changes.

He was always there. He never changed.

She begged me for two years before I considered it. She turned eleven, and that’s all she wanted. More than anything else in the world.

Around this time, my mom passed away. And my old man was slowing down. I was terrified of losing him, especially after something as devastating as losing a parent.

There were only three kittens to choose from. My daughter was desperate for a female. She was tired of all the boys in the house (my cat, my dog, and her big brother).

The first one ran around the small alcove they put us in and didn’t let us pet it at all. The second one hid and shook.

The third one, a tiny male tabby, squeaked and nuzzled my arm. My daughter fell in love.

That first night, she did exactly what I thought she would. She wanted to keep him exclusively in her bedroom. I told her that she would be coming to me at 2 a.m., complaining. She shook her head and told me I didn’t know what I was talking about.

She made it to 3 a.m. She came into my bedroom crying, with the kitten clutching her shoulder.

“Moooooommmmm! We have to take him back! He’s soooooo needy.”

“He’s a baby!”

“No. He’s a cat!”

“He’s a baby cat! Of course he’s needy!”

There was no way I was going to take him back to the pet store, no matter how much she complained.

I put my older cat in my bedroom with a baby gate across the doorway. This kitten stood on one side, squeaking. My old man hissed and growled.

Two days later, I found them sleeping, tangled on the couch.

Sometimes, the kitten would lie directly on top of my old man’s head and bite his ear. He didn’t even react. He played with him. He groomed him. Somehow, this tiny, obnoxious kitten had become his friend.

He did something to my older cat, somehow breathing enough life into him to give him three more years with me.

I lost my dad in September of last year. My dear old cat died in April of this year.

I didn’t plan to love the kitten. My daughter made it clear that I wasn’t supposed to be forming a bond with him. But I was the one who fed him. I was the one who took care of his litter box. I was the one who tried to console him when he would cry in the kitchen in the middle of the night.

As he aged, he became far more independent than I was used to and would only come to me when it was terribly inconvenient.

He doesn’t give his love freely. The only way my daughter can get him to cuddle with her is if she picks him up and forces him to stay in her arms.

When I go to bed, he climbs on my leg and lies down on my hip. When I work, he will bat at my fingers when I try to type. When I go to the bathroom, he is on the other side of the door crying, wanting it open.

And late at night, he roams around, howling, looking for his old friend.

I shared almost two decades with that old friend. We chose each other. Eventually, he became a constant. Something that felt as permanent as home.

This time, I feel chosen.

He isn’t that needy little kitten anymore. He doesn’t need me the way he did then.

But he still comes to me.

And that’s exactly why I can’t seem to ever get anything done.