man cat

Citizens Mildly Concerned About Mallow

Mallow is one huge problem of a cat.

I knew this when I got him. At a point in my life when I was most fervently committed to doing some kind of good for the deprived animal population that lives largely ignored around us, I also came into a place where I felt I had room for another animal in my life. I would not go out and get a kitten; I was determined not to participate in the system that perpetuates the idea of companion animals as disposable commodities. Kittens are desirable, they find homes easily. People see them in cages, look at those big eyes and unsteady paws and fat bellies, and impulsively buy them. Later, when it is not as convenient or amusing to have a cat, they are abandoned.

I had decided I wanted a cat that nobody else would want. I wanted the cat that had been continuously rehomed and abandoned. I wanted to give a chance to an animal that might not otherwise get that chance.

At the same time, I started obsessing over Winston. He's a minor internet celebrity, championed only because he is so very, very strange. An exotic shorthair, Winnie is both adorable and vaguely alien. I felt my elitist (breedist?) tendencies surfacing. I'm always drawn to purebred animals; I like the distinctions between appearances and the "characteristic" traits of the animals that may or may not surface. Breeds stand out as individuals in a categorizing mind, and though I recognize the hypocrisy in claiming to eschew categories while letting them determine my desires, I was so much more attracted to purebred cats than the admittedly more needy, less flashy barn cats. That narrowed it down: I wanted a desperate cat, but one both desperate and pretty.

When the breed rescue coordinator sent me photos of Mal, I was not impressed. I went to meet him mostly to meet the rescue lady, as I was impressed by how committed she was to finding me the right cat. But Mallow was young and healthy and very friendly, and it seemed like he wouldn't have any problems finding a new home.

Of course, when I met him, things changed. I was immediately attached. Mal--at the time he went by the name Cinnamon--had a contradictory history. He had three different birth dates on various papers, which portrayed him as four, six, and seven months old, respectively. I was sure all three of these dates were impossible, as he was already huge and seemed fully mature. When the rescue lady told me he'd already been abandoned twice due to "questionable litterbox habits", I thought: bingo! That bad cat ismine.

I didn't really think about what his "questionable litterbox habits" might entail for me and my hardwood floors.

Needless to say, there have been problems. A year and some odd months later (and yes, he was actually six or seven months old, as he roughly doubled in size after I got him and I now have a nearly twenty-pound cat with questionable litterbox habits) I twice have gotten to a place where I did not know if I could stand finding one more poop on my couch. But these moments are always just that--moments. They've encouraged me to try to understand why he does what he does (namely: poop on the couch) and what I can do to combat that. The scarce details I have from his original surrender papers and what the rescue pieced together point towards a very social animal denied enough attention and dumped off in shelters twice within a few months. From my own experience of his neuroses I've diagnosed him with something I've never heard referred to in cats but is extremely common in dogs: I think he has separation anxiety.

And why wouldn't he? Cats are, contrary to popular conception, actually very social creatures, and Mal exceptionally so. He is curious and brave and never gets tired of human attention. He prefers constant companionship to quiet alone time. He has a great desire to communicate, and has very clear signals for when he is bored and when he needs his box cleaned. He is a distant cry from the standard idea of a housecat, reserved, enigmatic, dignified, quiet. He's loud and clumsy and wants to interact with people all day long. He's terribly sensitive himself and seems concerned when someone--especially Monster--is in distress. I think in a lot of circumstances he would be misunderstood, and his bizarre poop habits would be seen as stupidity instead of a result of complex emotional circumstances. Sometimes, usually when I am scrubbing a mess off of the floor or sofa, I revert to a snarling belief in the former. But the anger dissolves. He's just so strange and unique. I feel like I'm particularly lucky to have happened across him.

Monster is less confident in my choice.