Living alone: Where Cats Happen

Pretzel and me.

Living alone means three things: 1.) Eventually a cat will materialize out of thin air 2.) The aforementioned cat will keep to the following arc:  Stranger to pet, pet to friend, friend to lover, and, depending on your commitment, lover to spouse (Note:  Most cat-human relationships are polygamous, involving multiple felines) 3.)  You will intake excess amounts of Netflix and/or Hulu Plus.

I lived alone for half a year before my friend, Pretzel, apparated onto my doorstep.  We’ve lived together for a year now, and I’m beginning to think that I love him.  Sometimes I nuzzle my nose into his jowls and inhale; he smells of dander and ambrosia.  He is my drug and, on account of the catnip I sprinkle on my clothes and in my hair, I am his drug, too.  Yet, while I’m on the verge of loving my cat, something calls out to me:  Reese, you need a real friend.  A people friend.  How did I get to this point?  Allow me to recount:

Our almost-love began as a forbidden affair.  The consequences of our relationship were many.  To say that there were hurdles to overcome would not only be a disservice to the quandary I found myself in, but it would also suggest that I could allay it by leaping over a series of waist-high obstacles; that, sir, is preposterous and would not have helped at all.  Indeed, words and phrases like Not Allowed, Evicted, and I hope he’s potty-trained or you’re f****** were tossed around.  Needless to say, Pretzel and I lived a six-month interpretation of the Phil Collins song, Against All Odds.  During this time, all my people friends graduated and moved away.  I had one more quarter of school left, so I moved to an apartment complex with an attitude more accommodating to Pretzel’s and my situation.

I have been living in this new apartment for half a year now.  I have had a grand total of eight visitors.  If that sounds like a lot, consider that five of them were immediate family members.  Every night, Pretzel and I curl up to watch Bones, Castle, Scrubs, The Walking Dead, Up All Night, or some other TV show that reminds me of the bromance I am missing.  Sometimes I will feed Pretzel chicken out of my hand.  Recently, I’ve begun to try and make him snatch it from between my lips.  His breath is distinctly repugnant, but I’m beginning to like it.  I even tried licking his forehead to see if it would endear him to me; it didn’t, and he ran away.  I’m thinking of trying the same on a human female, but early polls suggest that I can expect a similar result.  Point is, I listened to some Michael Jackson (Man in the Mirror) and have since looked in the mirror.  Despite my initial distraction–compliments of and to my good looks–I began to see that I have slowly, over the past year, transitioned into a crazy, old cat lady.

So that is where I’m at right now.  Living alone and ascribing a more loveable personality to my cat by the day.  Who knows, soon Pretzel might not be enough.  Maybe his long-lost brother, Schnitzel, will magically appear to help unsuccessfully fill the void left by my people friends.  After Schnitzel, maybe Falafel, followed by Juniper, followed by Rufio, followed by *Chicken (you can’t live forever, Tori), followed by **Pookenshtein and ***Nimbus (ditto, Owen and Anna), followed byoh, well, you get the point!  Soon all the cats in the world will be mine.  Rawr.




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3 thoughts on “Living alone: Where Cats Happen

  1. Anonymous says:

    who took that photo of you then?

  2. Lauren says:

    You and your cat are adorable. 😀

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