well, the cat made it

I never thought I'd be the "mommy" type.

I've always had a "sticky" aversion, even to the point of not eating lollipops as a child. I chose to teach at the secondary (high school) level because the idea of wet, dirty-faced, crusty children nauseates me. I sympathy puke, sometimes even at the thought of someone else puking.



And then one day, I got this cat. Bob. A big beast of a cat—at the time he was 25 lbs., black as night, and nearly 36" from nose-to-tail. Even trimmed down to a svelte 15 lbs., Bob is more dog than cat (it probably doesn't help that I've leash trained him or that he can sit, stay, fetch—on his terms—and talks on command... or that I call him "Puppy").

I adopted Bob on a whim—he was tagged to be destroyed, a violent and ornery cuss. Combined with his heft and being an black adult Tom, he didn't stand a chance for adoption against the litters of mewing, wide-eyed manipulative kittens.


Of course, I knew none of this. What I saw was a cat carrier, pushed away from the trophy-kittens, with a wadded up towel and a tiny, blue-eyed baby tabby cat sitting atop the terrycloth mountain. A sucker for blue eyes, I opened the cat carrier, and the towel moved. Not the kitten, just the towel—and from under it emerged one, giant green eyeball.

The towel blinked.

I was in love.

Pushing aside the blanket (the tabby was content to sit, perched on the folds, unimpressed with me), I reached in and hefted up what I contend to this day is the largest—not fattest, but largest—cat I have ever seen.

"Don't open that cage!" a volunteer with the adoption organization had shrieked. "He's violent! Ferrel!" By this point, I was holding the completely docile, floppy feline against my body, over my shoulder, his front arms hugging me back. He shoved his nose in my ear, sniffed twice, and exhaled heavily. Deep inside of him, a chainsaw was revved to life and he purred loudly, in absolutely no rhythm or pattern.

"Violent?" I repeated. The volunteer reached gingerly toward him. Bob put his head on my shoulder and groaned.

The volunteer stopped. "I can't believe it," she had muttered. "He's yours. Free. Take him."

I had not come into the store looking for a cat. I declined.

Two days later, I was calling all over hell and back, trying to find Bob. The biggest mistake of my life had been walking out of there without him; I missed him, I needed him. I prayed he hadn't been put down. Within a week, I was schlepping His Royal Meatiness back to my home, smiling at the notion of us curled up on the sofa, snoozing, long into our old age.

That first night, around 3 a.m., I was laying on the living room floor in tears, begging Bob to stop meowing and to just let me sleep. I held him, I fed him, I played with him, I brushed him—all the while, that damn chainsaw roared on inside of him, punctuated by a loud, deep meow that didn't quite fit what I knew him to be.

That was 8 years ago. Bob is an old man, now—vets guess him to be 12-13 years old. I've never seen even so much as a hint of the "violent" moniker that almost sealed his fate. It is rare when my son doesn't sleep with me on my pillow, his head against my own with one paw resting in one of my hands. I never thought I could love anything so much. I came from being uninterested in keeping houseplants alive to nurturing a "violent, ferrel" beast to compassionate, loving health. (Of course, it could have been just a fluke: I have since adopted another cat, a tiny, black, girl-kitten with bright blue eyes who — now at 5 years old — has proven to have been spawned by some catlike Satan.)

Cats are not babies; of this, I am aware. I do not claim to know a damned thing about babies. But, I also didn't know too much about cats before Bob (or too much about kids before I became a teacher, come to think of it). But Bob and I learned, together. If I listened, he told me what he needed. And, if I was patient, we learned together how truly amazing he can be.

In past relationships, I've always thought about having children but never really got around to the point of manifesting that dream. And then, much like when I didn't go looking for Bob, I have found myself with an amazing partner who shares my growing desire to raise a family. As our  time together progresses, I find myself growing more confident, more passionate in my desire to raise children with this amazing woman. The idea of becoming a mom has piqued my interests and shaped my values in ways I'd never before considered, and motivates me to do now what before seemed unthinkable in order to share our forever-life with another small, beautiful being.

Of course, being one-half of a two-female couple means the journey toward motherhood will not be traditional, and most certainly will not be easy. But being one-half of a two-female couple isn't exactly easy itself.

It is a new and exciting path for us. I may just make a mommy of me, yet.