Because I’ve voiced the fact that I’m not an animal lover, it’s often assumed then that I’m an animal hater.  This isn’t necessarily true.  I’m just not like most people. When most people see a dog being walked by its owner, they stop, pay it attention, and squeal things like,  “Oooohhhh look … he/she is so precious. Yes he/she is.” They will coo and rub the creature all over, and sometimes they even let the thing lick them in the face. Not me. Absolutely not. I will avoid the dog at all costs, and think dirty things like, “Oh gross. Please don’t touch me. Do you have fleas? Have you just licked your butt hole?” And then I scour the ground for piles of dog shit.

I’ve always paid respect to those who own pets (besides French kissing dog owners. That’s inexcusable), because there is an incredible amount of patience and understanding that goes along with having them. Growing up, I had two dogs, both blonde Cocker Spaniels named Bummer. The first one was smart and friendly and fun. At least this is what I was told. I don’t remember him very much because he was my pet when I was two-years-old. His uniqueness, however, must have stood out to others though because one day someone snatched him and he never returned home. Three years later, my step-dad surprised me with a new Bummer at Christmas. His personality was nothing like the original, although the name suited him more. This dog never played with me, instead he rolled around in his own shit. He also did anything to get out of the backyard, like relentlessly run into glass doors attempting to get inside the house and dig holes by the fence that led to hour-long search parties. When I secretly didn’t care whether or not we found Bummer #2, I began to notice my complacent attitude towards animals.

Much later in life, when I was looking in the mirror at the scars on my face, I realized that there was more to my prejudice against pets than just a bad attitude. Above my mouth, under my right eye, and on my forehead I have reminders of why I’m not an animal lover. I was attacked as a baby, twice, by two different Scottish Terriers. When my Mom finally revealed this tid-bit of news to me, my indifference towards animals, especially dogs, started to make sense and I no longer felt estranged about not wanting cat calendars or fuzzy, iron-on puppy T-shirts like everyone else in my school.

Though I have been betrayed by the dog species, I still have never considered them as terrible as cats. While their ability to train themselves to pee and poop in a litter box is somewhat of a miraculous accomplishment, overall I’ve always considered cats worthless. They shed. They claw. Their tongues feel like sand paper. They’re not allowed to be around pregnant women (which is confusing to me because shouldn’t this mean they are a biohazard to everyone?). And then there is that friendly “crazy cat lady” title that is given to every woman who owns a cat, regardless if she is single or not, and regardless if she has one or twenty. Never in a million years, did I imagined that I’d earn the title of “Crazy Cat Lady,” but it’s exactly what has happened since I met Zola. I am that person, the one that proudly post pictures of my cat on Facebook every few days, and enjoys receiving “cute” and “like this” comments. I’m even considering making a cat calendar, twelve months of Zola, on the couch, in a tree, taking a dump, anything really, because everything that cat fucking does is adorable.

It all went down in a parking lot on a Tuesday. Fortunately for society, what I lack in compassion for animals, I’ve always made up in my passion to help people. Sometimes, I truly believe I can save the world singlehandedly. So when my brother’s friend, Jamie, came in to Frogger’s one night, a place my brother and I sometimes go to play poker, I could tell she needed to be rescued.

“I just love her. She’s the cutest and sweetest kitten ever,” she began. “Someone brought her in to the vet’s office a few days ago. The poor thing. She was living at a gas station. She was filthy and starving, but she’s doing so well now.” As the tears began to flow down the young woman’s face, I thought, “How disgusting. Who would let a dirty, wild cat in his/her car? Are they nuts?”

“The Humane Society is coming to get her tomorrow,” she continued. “And I’m afraid if I don’t find her a home, she’ll be euthanized.” I didn’t know what euthanized meant at that moment, but it sounded like death, something I thought the kitty may prefer at this point.

“Where is she? Should we go play with her?” I blurted out. It had happened before I could stop it.  The look on Jamie’s face matched mine, complete shock.

“Yes!” she said. “She’s just outside. Let’s go!” On the way to the car, Jamie told me that she already had five pets at home and there was no way her parents would allow another one, even if it was the best kitten in the world. Collecting pets is something like a hobby when you work at a vet’s office. In between her naming the animals, I briefly mentioned that I’m not a cat person. And it’s something that continued to play in my head until we got to her car.

When Jamie sat the orange, six-week-old kitten on my lap, it quickly curled up and began vibrating with sounds. “That’s something cats do when they’re happy,” she informed me.  I had heard that before, though I had no idea why Zola was happy. She clearly was unaware of the danger that I could impose on her.

She was tiny. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her as I rubbed my fingers over each rib protruding from her fury chest.  It was obvious she’d had a tough life and it didn’t seem fair.

“Where is her tail?” I asked.

“She doesn’t have one.”

I was afraid to ask what happened to it, but I needed to know. I learned she was born that way and it’s a completely normal condition, but a rare feature none-the-less. They’re called Manx cats.

I watched her chest pump with each breath. She didn’t seem evil. She didn’t try to escape, or claw, or bite me. She didn’t do much of anything really. It was as if she was in recovery from some drug addiction and it was all too much–her body had shut down, tired from it all. I looked up at Jamie. She was smiling, and seemingly hopeful. Fuck.  “Do you want to go home with me little kitty,” I asked. That’s when Zola looked up at me for the first time, opened her eyes, and shook her head yes. Or maybe she hiccuped. Still, I took it as a sign.  “I guess I can give it a shot,” I told Jamie. It was the promise that I could return her, and also the things that came with her, like toys, a bed, food, litter and a 50% off deal at the vet’s office, that sealed the deal.

I knew I had it coming, and was prepared for the following comments from those who know me: “What? YOU got a kitten?” “Are you crazy?” “Are you going through some sort of mid-life crisis?” “No way. I don’t believe it!”  I ignored them all because I couldn’t recognize myself anymore either.  Maybe it was because I was already in the gambling mood, but that night I took a chance on Zola and I’m glad I did. She’s changed my entire worldview in the short six weeks she’s lived with me.

With Zola came medicine. I’ll admit, I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into. She had a bad tummy due to the garbage diet she survived on during her first five weeks of life.  She needed something to help solidify her poop now that she was eating proper food, and she needed to eat a lot of food. Just when she had finished the last of the Pepto Bismol-like liquid and during the third week I had her, one day she started convulsing after drinking out of her water bowl. It scared me and so I called Jamie the next day when it happened for the second time.

“Can you bring her in?” she asked. Her tone was serious.

“Yes, of course,” I answered. Minutes after I hung up the phone, I was at Petco buying a pet carrier and new toys. I wanted Zola to have a reason to come home.

The house was not the same without her. No one greeted me at the door. She always comes to the door. That’s where we high-five (She props herself up on my feet with her front paws, I bend down, and then she reaches one paw up to my hand). It’s a trick I didn’t have to teach her, just something we started doing one day. I went straight to my room to write. I needed something to take my mind off of what Jamie had said. Kittens have a fairly high chance of having leukemia. Zola would need to be tested that day.

I waited two hours before I texted Jamie for the results. She didn’t respond back. As the hours rolled past, I became anxious about Zola’s well being.  She couldn’t have cancer. It wouldn’t be right. We’d overcome so much, together, and besides she was vibrating all the time now, which clearly meant she appreciated her rags to riches story, now that she lived in a high-rise condo. I began to think about the time we had spent together, like when we watched TV. She’s the only cat I’ve ever known that watches TV like she understands what’s happening. Or when I needed to work, and she sat on my feet while I wrote, that was before she could climb up and into my lap. She immediately took to the litter box. She gained weight. She didn’t claw or bite, ever, and when she started to misbehave, she somehow understood the word “No.” As I looked around at all of her stuff lying on the floor of my room, I became like Jamie had the night I adopted Zola–all teary eyed. This must be what it feels like to be an animal lover, I thought. Only now I wasn’t sure my pet was coming home.

“I’m so sorry Jana. We became so busy this afternoon…but good news. Zola tested negative for Leukemia. She does, however, have a respiratory infection and needs to be on an antibiotic. The vet thought she might have had one before when she was here last, but it was hard to tell. It must have fully developed since then.”

“Yay,” I replied. I couldn’t think of any other words to describe my relief. I didn’t care that she had to take more medicine, just like I don’t care that she has really bad gas, or continues to lick me with her sandpaper tongue even though I hate it.  She was coming home, back to me, the person that loves her.

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