Cats in the office

At the risk of sounding like crazy cat lady by telling this story, I have a cat here who is the neediest thing when the weather turns cold. This cat's name is Rooster, he's gray and too fat, but manages to be quite pretty since he has a smallish, narrow face - not one of the giant pancake-flat variety that make big cats seem too large for their own skin.

He's always been the most curious, the boldest, and the most easygoing of the four cats that wander around this place, which makes him the most interesting and lovable. But the thing is, I'm not crazy to be in the cat-lover category, because it usually conjures for me the sickly sweet odor of litter boxes and piles of fur sticking to the furniture. The houses of cat lovers often involve drawings or photographs of cats, and cat jewelry and mugs.

And bad decorative taste aside, I'm not crazy about anything enough to want to infiltrate my interiors and fashion with it. And, frankly, I don't want animals living inside with me. Yet, somehow, I let these cats lounge on the furniture in my office all day long.

Lest the usage of "office" tricks you into imagining me in some sort of cubicle-filled paradise, let it be known that my office -- sometimes also called Pee-Wee's Playhouse, due to its, um, unique construction -- is actually a lean-toish addition to a questionably stable barn. The walls are rough-hewn oak, some covered in mold, I am quite certain; plywood, some with the added bonus of brand stamps showing; and the former outside wall siding. The floor is cement covered in astro-turf, and is full of normal office things, in addition to some trophies, a child's life-vest, a ceramic turtle, and a very expensive but effective Rainbo vacuum.

So, it's not inconceivable that a cat would be more at home here than a human. But still, it distresses me that I'm known to the FedEx, UPS, and water guys as "the girl who has cats in her office," because, Ew, for all the reasons listed above. No litterbox, thankfully (why would you need one inside when the barn is your litterbox?), but we've got the hair, and the dirty paws and the indiscriminate licking, and the general arrogance with which they wander the office and jump on things.

Rooster, in particular, cries every day at the door to be let in and then WON'T LEAVE ME ALONE, no matter how many times I rudely push or throw his chunk away from my Aeron. But then when I look at his face, I imagine I've hurt his feelings, so then I feel guilty and scratch and rub and say things like, "I'm sorry, baby, but you're dirty and I don't have time. But I love you."

Wait, that is exactly what I say. Oh dear.

So, I could also be known as the girl with a multiple personality disorder who either talks baby talk to her cats, or who chucks them outside when they put a dirty paw one too many times on her jeans.

I really don't know how it came to this. I used to have a good handle on my professional distance from animals. Now I kiss a cat's fur almost every day.

It baffles me that I look at this cat and say, "Can I help you?" and sometimes expect him to answer. I tell my sister stories like he's a person and just did the cutest thing. I know lots of people do this with zeal, but it unnerves me, not because I think it's okay to hate animals, but because it seems like there should be a definitive human/animal line in the way we interact.

Sometimes, particularly with Rooster, I step waaay over. I'm so afraid it's just a matter of time until my furniture is covered with hair and I don't even notice the fabric in shreds. I plead for intervention if I ever join a newsgroup through a website cleverly named iluvcats. But then it might be too late.

You should read: "My Widow" by T.C. Boyle, first published in The New Yorker on February 12, 2001, now anthologized. It will convince you to leave them outside.