Men, Friends, and Cats

 

 

In a space of about four months I lost a friend, a man, and my cat. Hmm. Before I go on there is one observation I just made when re-reading that sentence: and it’s not far from the point I was going to make, either. Did you notice how I described each loss as an object except “my cat”? Rather telling, me thinks.

 

Without dwelling on how the friendships ceased (after twenty-three years), I was upset at the circumstances and replayed the events in my mind until I got tired of babbling to myself and obsessing with rage. It was hard. Several months later the new man of my dreams entered the category of “not even if he were the last guy on earth”. Another blow, a sigh of relief, angst, and on with life, I thought. The worst scene of this melodrama unfolded when my real friend and companion, of fourteen years, died in my arms.

 

If you’re an animal lover, what I have to say is not unfamiliar. When I think of what differentiating characteristics say about relationships, some rather revealing observations present themselves. Maybe some of our pets can be instructive.

 

Eons ago, after years of frustration, an arduous climb up the corporate ladder finally brought me high enough to get hurt if I fell. It was a proud moment for me as I shared it with my friend. She was a medical director at a nursing home, and though a long-standing member of the golden age club, was still sharp, feisty, and egomaniacal. My achievement was received with a shrug. It did, however, prove to upset her perceived balance of power. She often got upset when I would disagree about anything (a hold-over from the ‘me god, you mortal’ days of medicine). With the promotion, she threw in: “I’m not one of your employees; don’t speak to me that way.” Maxx, on the other hand, greeted the news in his usual manner of climbing into my lap and purring. He approached any disagreements thereafter with the same disregard as before.

 

Shopping was another area of interest; with my man proving to be an experience unto himself. The thrice wed example of homo erectus bought non-essentials only if they were on sale: and never in a quality store. Should I find something to fulfill a whim, he’d ask why I needed it, how much it cost, couldn’t I get it cheaper, etc. It was, by the way, with my own dinero. My senior citizen friend had another approach: she always had one just like it but better, more expensive, and more special (or, what are you wasting your money on that thing for?) Ah yes, one more item: this was the woman who spent more than $6000 for a six foot cement jug to sit in her kitchen. Maxx, upon being shown new purchases, would walk up to it, smell the object, rubbed up against it enough to call for the lint brush, and go back to sleep.

 

“But,” you say: “what about conversations?” Have you ever noticed how some people are interested only in what pertains to them, and what they have to say? Well, do you prefer a man or friend who either doesn’t listen or when they do, criticize? So that’s better than a cat that quietly listens with no comment? I often thought the feline had as much (if not more) intellect than a good number of the men I’ve dated. There’s also the matter of courtesy. Maxx was neat as a pin. He used the litter box, didn’t get the walls, and tidied up afterward. His human counterpart had absolutely no idea how to clean up after himself.

 

When Maxx was hungry there was no game playing about it. I didn’t get “gee, I guess you want to order dinner in tonight” or “You don’t expect ME to to do lunch, do you?” Maxxie was always a gentleman. The little guy would find me, sit down, and stare at me. Should I be too engrossed in a task, he’d move into my line of sight. If all else failed, he’d call me. It was that simple.

 

I know many women consciously or unconsciously seek a man just like their daddy. My next guy has to measure up to Maxx.