Yes, I know, I changed the order of events. I just finished a piece that was emotionally exhausting and I simply didn’t have the energy to write about hurricane evacuations. So I decided to tell the story of The Night King first. Enjoy.
The Honeymoon, The Night King, and The Hurricane: Part 2
The lengths I will go to avoid dealing with grown-up responsibilities, or “adulting” as the kids call it these days, are pretty extreme. So extreme, in fact, that I often fail to recognize my own digressive efforts until I’ve long since reached the in-over-my-head point and I’m asking myself, “Wait. Why exactly did I do this again?”
My most recent length began in July, when I found myself unemployed with a half dozen or so tangible book ideas in my brain and some good prospects for publication. So naturally, I decided I needed to focus all of my efforts into getting a cat. And convincing my husband that he also wanted a cat.
You know how sometimes you live your entire life one way, then suddenly you realize you’re a real adult who’s allowed to make her own choices, and one of those choices could be to do something differently? It was like that. I’d never owned any sort of feline, and in my entire life had only had a few small dogs (and a guinea pig who died tragically of kidney failure), so it never occurred to me that I would be allowed to do so. Turns out there are millions of cats out there and literally anyone with a pulse can have one.
Since I wasn’t aiming to murder any of my allergy-prone family members, I decided it best to do some research. I poured over online articles and sites like Pet Finder and PetMD (from the WebMD people) and learned that there are no hypoallergenic cats, but there are nearly-hypoallergenic cats and they’re not necessarily those creepy hairless sphinxes, which is good because they are expensive and rare. Also, they seem starey and judgmental.
I kept my husband, who was extremely opposed to the idea, abreast of my search, in an effort to wear him down. I showed him hundreds of adoptable cats, suggested names, and texted him immediately upon safely concluding that short, light-colored female Siamese and Balinese cats were our best bet, and that counter-intuitively, long hair is preferable. This worked well for me. I’ve always loved Siamese cats, especially Elvis the cross-eyed Siamese from the My Favorite Murder podcast who meows for cookies.
And wear him down I did. Over time he transitioned from disgust, to disinterest, to feigned amusement, to actively participating in the search. When he casually mentioned he thought it would be a funny idea to get a flame point Siamese (that’s the white kind with the orangish-pinkish ears and face) with bright blue eyes and name it The Night King after the blue-eyed ruler of the undead from Game of Thrones, I knew I’d won him over.
After weeks of scouring online adoption sites and contacting every shelter in a 500 mile radius, I discovered that the perfect flame point Siamese had been sitting at the Humane Society in Council Bluffs the entire time, mistakenly labeled a domestic mix. I picked him up that very afternoon, and The Night King was ours.
If distraction from real world responsibilities was my goal, I succeeded tenfold. In the past month, I found that is entirely possible to squander hours shopping for cat bow ties and private cat potty houses, and that you can not be allergic to cats, while being very allergic to the clumping compound in their litter. I discovered that cats, though not as loud as dogs, sure do like to meow at humans for hours on end. Most surprisingly though, I learned that a hurried veterinarian can accidentally leave a cat semi-neutered and half in tact. And just this morning I realized that when you take him back to finish the job, that same vet will return him to you in a glassy-eyed ketamine frenzy.
At the moment, I am frantically attempting to wrap up a homework essay while continually apologizing to a plumber for the fact that my cat is apparently a Special K junkie who won’t stop climbing on his back as he replaces my garbage disposal.
I don’t know why exactly I did this again.
(Side note: Thanks to a pre-surgical belly shave, I also know that male cats have nipples too!)
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