As I do my poli-sci readings from my bed, in my first apartment, a small hairball with an attitude makes herself known by sitting on my keyboard: Amira, as my sister christened her. She’s got guts, acts like she owns the place and is rather demanding when she claws at my bedroom door when I get frustrated with her antics and kick her out. But I always let her back in. Because she’s pretty cute.
JD Vance’s cat lady comments bothered me before I ever came into possession of this cat. Why must someone’s choice of pet companion be cause for sexist remarks? Do men with their big sheep herds pose a worry for the American future? Us cat ladies aren’t doing anything particularly damning, besides not caring for children of our own…Oh wait! That’s what we’re doing that’s damning.
I did not consider myself a cat person before getting Amira since I wasn’t raised in a particularly pet loving family. My dad, the farm boy that he is, finds the thought of animals inside the house revolting, and I never thought much about having a golden retriever waiting at my bus stop as a child.
However, my sister traveled away for grad school, and there was no way my parents were going to take on the cat life, so what was I supposed to do? Throw the cat back out into the woods? She stared at me with her sweet big black eyes when my sister dropped her off, and I knew we were in it for the long haul.
I don’t really enjoy the caretaking role in any sense, especially for someone that doesn’t exactly help with household chores – rather contributes to them.
When I wake up in the morning, Amira is the one who’s doing the waking, pawing at my face and sitting directly on my back, making herself comfortable.
And did you know how expensive pet food is? Guess what? Now I do! Her salmon bites almost cost more than my car.
Also, the medical expenses? I mean, I don’t want her to get rabies, but I’ll never be able to kick her off my medical insurance at 26.
She doesn’t smell the best either. She’s got a musky odor that’s abhorrently cat infused, not at all like Chanel, but not as awful as a possible case of fleas.
She’s a wily one for sure. However, she’s not all bad.
When I open my front door to my apartment that I call my own, there’s a little creature awaiting my return, loudly meowing at my pant leg, who stops when I pick her up. She purrs and rubs her little jaw against my hand, and I feel my anxiety melt away, knowing that I’m home with this little friend who keeps me entertained, keeps the house lively and helps me to care for and be kind to myself, just as I do for her.
Plus, she keeps any mice away.
Feel free to sit on my keyboard, Amira! You’ve made my apartment feel like a home, and I’m happy to have you along for the college ride.
So, JD Vance, whether or not I choose to have my own children will be of no consequence to your past misogynistic remarks. And this lovely animal that I so adore, if she provides me with my cat lady title for the rest of my life, I will wear the honor proudly.
