Yes, I’m writing about my cat.
I figured if everyone gets to talk about their kids, and I don’t have any of those lying around, I should talk about my secondary, adopted feline child.
Now, I wouldn’t call her my kid if she didn’t act like it. Ever since I adopted her, she has followed me into every room and sits on all the furniture I’m sitting on every minute of every day.
My cat’s name is Mayla, named after the eponymous song by Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros. The song is a light, sweet lullaby.
It doesn’t fit her very well. I don’t know what I was thinking. She’s not a good girl.
I adopted her from an adviser I had at Ball State. Her barn cats had a litter of kittens, and she was giving all of them away for free.
One day, she brought the three kitties who were still up for grabs into the office for them to be adopted.
The other two cats were scooped up and cuddled immediately. Mayla sat in the corner of her pet carrier, hissing at anyone who dared touch her.
When she tired herself out being ferocious, I picked her up and she slept on me. Rarely has she hissed at me since then.
I can’t say the same for other people. She’s been rude to all my previous roommates, but not necessarily aggressive.
I guess that’s what I get for adopting a cat that was born in a barn.
Now, Mayla lives with my boyfriend and me in Fort Wayne. Her favorite pastimes include sprinting the length of the apartment as fast as she can, crunching on plastic bags and jumping on and dangling from jackets hung from the back of a door.
She also has a weird obsession with the bedroom closet. Whenever one of us opens it, she tries to run and hide under the clothes.
It’s worked once, which resulted in me getting a photo while I was at work of her little foot reaching out from under the closet which I had accidentally closed her into that morning.
She’s not always erratic and inexplicable, though. She loves attention, especially when my alarm goes off in the morning and the first thing I see when I open my eyes is her pink nose in my face.
And she loves my parents’ German shepherd, who is terrified of her. Mayla tries to ask the dog to feed her when she’s hungry, rubbing up on her and meowing around her food bowl.
I’ve tried to explain to Mayla that the dog can’t feed her, but she won’t listen.
All joking aside, she is wonderful to come home to after a long day of work. When I come in the door, she jumps up from the hair-covered spot on my boyfriend’s armchair where she sleeps (he loves that) and flops on the ground for pets.
And when I’m unwinding and playing video games or reading, she is right by my side, napping with her little head leaned up against me.
We’re just two girls taking it one day at a time.