Dog person adopts kitten

For three plus years in my early 20s, my dear friend and roommate had a cat named Chloe. I never had did any cat-related-work, and yet, Chloe flustered me. She would systematically nudge drinking glasses filled with water off tables and mantels just to watch the glass break. She delightedly sat twitching her tail while one of us cleaned it up. Chloe couldn't decide if she wanted to sit next to me while watching TV or if she just wanted to stick her claws in me. My roommate assured me this was a sign of affection, but the sight of a cats claws' tacitly terrified me. Chloe would sometimes pee on a random blanket or piece of clothing or bag. I was a dog-person. Dogs were trained to pee and poop outside. Why were cats so different? 

Then one Christmas my roommate drove home to Louisiana from Chicago, and Chloe slipped out of the car at a roadside stop in Mississippi or Tennessee, never to be found again. My roommate was devastated. I felt horrible for my roommate when she called to tell me, but in one corner of my brain, I felt myself relax. In Chloe's absence, my water glass would be safe no matter where I put it, and I would never again fear the sight of her claws or smell the unwelcome stench of pee outside the litter box. What I couldn't foresee and would later miss was how much Chloe kept the Chicago mice at bay.

So flashforward 15 years: our century-old duplex is now a mouse hotel. The mice participate in a kitchen timeshare: promptly at 7pm, they skitter into the kitchen, their black beady eyes asking us to vacate the premises so that they might feast on our un-swept floor. The professional rodent business we contacted didn't offer any airtight solutions, and that's when the idea of adopting a cat crystallized. My husband and I - both of us card-carrying dog lovers - initially dismissed the idea. I'm allergic to cats, and we aren't really cat people.

The more mouse poop showed up around our kitchen and migrated to other rooms in the house, the more disgusted I grew. Online scrolling and shopping are the most satisfying ways to solve a problem during a pandemic. As my parents-now-first-floor-tenants informed me of their increasing mouse problem, I began researching ways to lessen the allergic effects of cats on humans. Friends and family told us of Purina's new cat food, LiveClear, scientifically proven to reduce the allergens in cat hair and dander by 47%. It seemed like this was a sign, and then the Humane Society posted a 10-day "Merry Meowlidays" special reducing the kitten adoption fee by almost half. I began obsessively scrolling the Humane Society's website for kittens, thinking it best to socialize a kitten young, reduce the allergens as early as possible, and solve our mouse problem pronto.

The Saturday morning after Thanksgiving, I received a phone call that my application was next on the list to adopt an intoxicatingly cute kitten. The ever-darkening mouse-tunnel had a cat-shaped light at the end of it. To prepare, I recalled in my mind all the things my roommate used to do to for Chloe, and I thought, "I'm going to stay positive about this, getting a kitten will hopefully mean we don't have the same issues as Chloe." We hurried to PetSmart as a family and purchased the necessary equipment. Within the span of a couple hours, we brought a new kitty home and everyone in the family fell in love. Though my allergies were set off, I thought this was a small hurdle until the Purina food started working its magic. The mice were already checking out of the mouse hotel. I could feel it.

Week 1: It seemed he was the dreamiest cat I'd ever met. I perceived his cat characteristics so differently than the way I had Chloe's, and I chalked up this new leaf to my age, wisdom, and battle scars from raising kids. One morning while doing dishes, as the playful kitten ran into the room and jumped at my leg with every prehensile claw he owned, I swelled with pride. Almost 40 years old, I now can be adaptable to a cat, I can be patient. I've grown as a human being. I texted my former roommate, sharing this insight, and admitting how impatient I'd been with Chloe all those years ago. I had matured. I was making amends with the spirit of Chloe.

Week 2: I sat on the floor and gazed up at the Christmas tree. At this level, there seemed to be a distinct yet horribly familiar smell. I put my nose into the upholstery of the couch, the armchair, the thin floor rug. I sniffed behind the radiator, and moved the Christmas boxes. Finally I made my way to the Christmas tree and peeled back the branches scraping the floor. This magical pine tree forest was the perfect dumping ground for our kitten's poop and urine. The large white tree-sized trash bag cradling the tree stand was meant to encase our dead tree in January, for easier removal from the house. But the pockets of soft white trash bag seemed too inviting for the kitten, and now I discovered endless puddles of ammonia stinging my nose. And a huge dump of poop.

The wisdom and maturity I thought I had gained over the past 16 years quickly left me as rage clouded my eyes. The momentary vindication of finding the smell dimmed as I saw the extent of mess before me. I stood, sucking air through my nostrils, eyes roaming the room for the little fur ball, heavy-footing my way through the main floor of our living space.

me: This is a one way ticket out of our house. TONIGHT!

Frankie cried, NO!

Audrey scooped the kitten up in her arms and ran to another part of the house.

Audrey: I won't let you get rid of him!

My husband looked at me while he fried tofu for dinner in a large pan at the stove. He was alarmed and trepidatiously watched me grab tools to clean up.

husband: I ask that you remember that your words have direct impact on our kids. The kitten is only 12 weeks old.

My tongue and teeth formed curse words as I laid on the ground. Pine needles pricked my skin while I sawed off all the lower branches of the Christmas tree with gardening sheers. One ornament shattered as I pulled a cut branch. The "spot clean only" tree skirt was a goner. An hour later our cozy Christmas tree transformed into a utilitarian corner. Only the plastic tree stand remained: the trunk was now completely bare, the twinkle lights folded onto each other in multiple rings around the new-lowest branches. It took three trash bags, a whole roll of paper towels, lemon-scented Lysol, and a water/vinegar cleanser to unmake the kitten's evacuation forest.

I burned through my rage by night's end, but still scorned the kitten the next day. 

Will we keep the kitten? Probably. Have I gotten over it? Mostly. What haunts me to this day is that Chloe was never found, she probably roamed the forests and fields of Tennessee or maybe Arkansas. Maybe she tried to make her way back north to Chicago, but only made it as far as mid-Missouri. Chloe knew that I didn't like her. She could sense that I was not a cat person. Why then, oh God, did we choose a name with so many letters akin to Chloe's? Why couldn't we have stuck with the name Patrick that the shelter gave to the kitten? Can I really be that surprised that the spirit of Chloe may still dwell in a cat named Leo?