Adventures in Catsitting

When my good friend Leila emailed me, asking if I’d take care of her cat for a few days, two thoughts immediately sprung to mind:
1) Hey, that might be a fun, change-of-pace sort of thing.
2) Gee, I hope I don’t end up in the emergency room again.

You see, cats and I have a calico history. When I was a tiny guy, cats were my favorite. My Grandpa Barry liked cats and so did I. Did I have a cat poster? Perhaps I did.

Then my family got a dog. He was a mutt, and his name was Sonny. And even though he bit me and was put down, I loved him. My loyalty had shifted. Next we got Sage, a sheltie, and he was a good dog, seeing me through from single-digits to mid-20s. I loved him very, very much.

Didn’t give cats much thought again until those mid-20s, when I learned I’d slowly developed a pretty serious allergy to pet dander. Like, sobbing-in-the-emergency-room-in-the-middle-of-the-night serious. The then-long-term girlfriend had two cats, Emilia and Estevez. Their dander was causing a bad asthmatic reaction. A doctor prescribed two inhalers: one for everyday use, and one for emergencies. I asked him how long I’d have to use the everyday inhaler. Like, forever? “Things change,” replied the doctor.

Well, he was right; the girl soon dumped me, and I stopped using the inhaler. And since then, I guess I’ve had a Pavlovian reaction to cats, associating them as I do with an inability to breathe. And also maybe with searing heartbreak.

A couple of years ago, I decided to pursue a truce with the feline set. I asked my current doctor for a prescription for the emergency inhaler. Albuterol. Why? Because every single woman in the greater New York metropolitan area has a cat. Sometimes two. And it had been an absolute dating dealbreaker for entirely too long. I still feel terrible about a cat-owning woman who I left behind in tears—was there a broken wine glass as well?—but my lungs come first.

The inhaler isn’t magic, and isn’t preventative. It reduces the reaction but doesn’t eliminate it. So I still avoid cats whenever possible. Dogs can cause the reaction too, but, awww, I love doggies.

And since I’ve recently been “working at home,” more than one person has suggested that I get a dog. It’s, you know, psychologically beneficial. But I’ve never thought that would be fair for the dog or for me. Sonny and Sage had backyards to play in, and people home at different hours for feeding and walking. I like the freedom of stumbling home incoherently at 4:30 a.m., and no schnauzer needing to pee is going to take that away from me.

But, a recent conversation with my friend Sarah again had me in a compromise sort of mood. Maybe I could be a dog walker? Kind of a rent-a-pet situation. Nearby friend Natalie talks of getting a dog; I could walk that dog! And this was the thought that was fresh in my mind when I read Leila’s message.

I called her and said I’d do it!

Went by Leila’s apartment—she lives nearby—and got the cat-care tour. Said hello to Tobi, the black-and-white stray who her mom had found and who Leila had adopted. Saw the litter box, the dry food, the canned food. Took the keys. Was told I could just come by 2 of the 3 days she’d be away, but I knew I’d come all three. I don’t half-ass things, or even two-thirds-ass ’em.

“So, I can basically come in, throw out the cat shit, feed him, and leave?” I asked. In-and-out, no time for dander to penetrate. “Well…” Leila said. “Spend a little time with him. Ten minutes.” Hmmm. This could get interesting. Almost like an episode of 24. Could I escape in time? Some people skydive, some run with the bulls. I spend 10 minutes with a housecat.

DAY ONE

Wore a shirt I did not plan on wearing the rest of the day. Left my jacket in the hallway. The less cat hair I can bring home with me, the better. Hardwood floors, that’s good. Not a dander trap.

Tobi mewed upon seeing me. This is good. Was told he might hide in the bedroom and be silent because I am a stranger. So this was auspicious: On the couch, mewing. Off to a promising start.

Headed to the bathroom. I’d only had catsitting responsibilities once before, for good ol’ Emilia and Estevez a long, long time ago. So maybe I am misremembering this, but I think I had been instructed to flush their crap down the toilet. That makes sense to me—poop is poop. But no, here I’d been told to put it in a trash bag and toss it out. Bags have been provided. I took the scooper/strainer thing and went digging for fecal matter. It’s kind of fun. A scatological treasure hunt. Lump of shit #1. Lump of shit #2. Lump of shit #3. Then I started thinking, what is wrong with this cat? How much feces can one cat produce? Some serious gastrointestinal difficulties are afoot! But then old kitty-litter ads started swimming in my head and I realized, This is not all poop. This is clumped litter! I’m learning, I’m learning.

Filled bowl with Cat Chow, chow chow chow.

Felt a little congested—early warning sign. Move, man, move.

Emptied dried-out wet food into the trash bag. Was given option of providing fresh wet food on a paper plate to avoid washing Tobi’s blue dish each day but, I am not a fan of change. So I’ll try to stick closely to Tobi’s normal routine. One serving of Flaked Tuna Feast in a clean blue dish, coming right up.

Mew mew mew. It’s pathetic how we living creatures get all worked up by the smell of food. Can we all evolve past that already?

Goodbye, Tobi, see you tomorrow.

Even with poop, clumps, and old food, there was still a lot of space left in the trash bag. And where do I toss it? This building must have garbage cans. Couldn’t find them. Walked down the street with a bag full of shit and cat food.

DAY TWO

Did some Googling last night. Clumped litter = dried pee. How charming. And clumpy litter is non-flushable. It’s all starting to make sense. And when I went out last night, brought my inhaler with me just in case. Sometimes it’s a delayed reaction.

Arrived today to find Tobi sequestered in the darkened bedroom.

And he’d left over a lot of the wet food. Had he and I taken a step backwards in our friendship, in our sense of trust?

Brought my own smaller plastic bag today, an old Papa John’s bag, should be plenty big.

Tobi didn’t make much of a dent in the dry food last night but I still topped it off. For our wet-food entree, today we switched to Flaked Fish & Shrimp Feast.

Success! Tobi went right for it.

We spent a little quality bro time afterwards. He’s warming up to me.

DAY THREE

What seemed like efficiency turned out to be rotten luck. Most Saturdays, I eat lunch at the same place. A restaurant quite near Leila’s apartment. So I figured, kill two birds with one stone. (Hey, calm down, Tobi, we’re not killing any birds. Sit. Stay. Good cat.)

Except, recently, I’ve been having some back-room chats with the proprietor. And sometimes the chats last a bit longer than I might hope. And often the proprietor is smoking a cigar during these chats.

And, the thing about my asthmatic reactions is, it’s not just pet dander. I’ve had sensitive little lungs ever since I was a wee fellow. I have vague memories of a late-night hospital visit, when I around 4 years old, which had something to do with not being able to breathe. I think they gave me a sticker for being a brave fellow? Then, years later, after the pet-dander discovery, I noticed that smoke-filled bars were also causing me some bronchial trouble. (So I did appreciate those draconian smoking bans.)

Clearly, prolonged cigar-smoke exposure with a cat-hair chaser would not be an ideal afternoon for me.

As I went panning for dried shit and urine clumps in the fine sands of Litter Beach, I could already feel it beginning. First, a little runny nose.

By the time I tended to the food, I was a little sneezy, a little wheezy. Not good.

Power through. I’ve got a job to do here.

Tobi ate most of yesterday’s wet food. Good cat! Cleaned the blue dish and filled it once again with horrific-looking Flaked Fish & Shrimp Feast.

Couldn’t let Tobi know I was in a weakened state. Hey Tobi. Good Tobi. Who likes food? Cough, cough.

He seemed to then express a hint of interest in goofing around. OK, I can stay a little bit longer. I tossed the ball with the pink feather across the room. Tobi found this mildly worthy of attention. I tossed the small stuffed dog across the room. Again, a modicum of interest.

But somehow, this flurry of non-activity worked up an appetite. Tobi went right to his blue dish. I stood still as he ate, so as not to disturb him. My own condition had stabilized somewhat. Though I might very well be busting out the inhaler when I got home.

After his meal, Tobi retreated behind the couch. He licked his lips.

And then he started to get sleepy. My work here was done. So long, buddy. Nice hangin’ with you. Mom will be back tomorrow. Sleep good, little man. Sleep good.