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 women see a dog being walking on the sidewalk, they stop and squeal things like,  “Oooohhhh look … he/she is so precious. Yes he/she is. A-goochi-goochi-goo.” They coo and rub the creature all over while I think 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 I was two-years-old when he was around. His uniqueness 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 relentlessly ran into glass doors trying to get inside the house and dug holes, or escape routes, under the fence that lead to hour-long search parties. I first began to notice my complacent attitude towards animals when I secretly didn’t care whether or not we found Bummer#2.

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. 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. In Middle School, when my Mom finally revealed this tid-bit of news to me, my indifference towards animals, especially dogs, started making sense and  I no longer felt weird about not wanting cat calendars or fuzzy, iron-on puppy T-shirts.

Even though I once was 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 the “crazy cat lady” title that is given to every single woman who owns a cat, regardless if they own one or twenty. Until Zola found me, never in a million years did I imagine myself as that “crazy cat lady.”

Fortunately, what I lack in compassion for animals, I’ve always made up for by my passion to help people. Sometimes, I believe I can singlehandedly save the world. When Jamie came in to Frogger’s, a place my brother and I go every Tuesday 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?”

“The Humane Society is coming to get her tomorrow,” she continued. “And I’m afraid if I don’t find a home for her, 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. Apparently, collecting pets becomes a habit when you work at a vet’s office. In between her naming her animals, I briefly mentioned that I’m not a cat person, or at least I thought I did. It may have just been something that I was saying over and over in my own mind.

Jamie sat the orange, six-week-old kitten on my lap, and 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 wondered why Zola was happy. Was it because of me? Or was it because she no longer needed to look for trash to eat? Either way, I couldn’t take my eyes off of her. She was so tiny. I felt each rib protruding from her rib cage.  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 had happened to it. I’d learn later she was born that way and that it’s normal, 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 appeared hopeful. “Do you want to go home with me little kitty,” I asked, the question was aimed at no one in particular. 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.

I’ll admit, I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into. With Zola came medicine. She had a bad tummy due to the garbage she ate 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, 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 must mean she appreciates her rags to riches story, now that she lives 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, I became like Jamie had the night I adopted Zola–all teary eyed. This must be what it feels like to become attached to an animal, 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.