In the summer of 2019, we were feeling the loss of our beloved tuxedo cat Benjamin. At almost 20 years old he had finally taken his ancient self off to the great beyond, along with his double paws, affable nature, and terrible piercing meow. We thought we might try filling his absence with two new shelter cats. The logic was that each of us humans would get plenty of cat time, and the cats would have each other for company when none of us were home.
We visited all of the shelter’s “cat rooms,” but our future housemates were already together in the main space: a fluffy all-black vocalizer who had only been released into the room an hour before, and an orangey-brown tiger who had been at the shelter for well over a month. The fluffball paced the floor and examined each of us in turn, then quickly targeted Kid 2, circling his feet as he doled out treats, making herself irresistible. Kid 1 (already taller than all of us) was the only family member who could reach high enough to scratch the tiger’s head; she seemed depressed and frightened, and he fell in love with her immediately.
A week later we brought Meep and Nutter home. Nervous Nutter spent about a month hiding under our treadmill, only emerging to eat and poop when the family was asleep. Meep (so called for her tiny beeping meow) strutted around like she owned the place, but was definitely not firing on all cylinders. She frequently fell off of things, her eyes appeared to focus in different directions, and she seemed a little dense. Or maybe she couldn’t see well? We weren’t sure, but it made her confidence all the more endearing.
Several months passed. Nutter left the safety of the treadmill, though she remained skittish if anyone stood, walked, or made a noise near her (in other words: constantly). Thinking of her high retreat at the shelter, we built a cat tower out of an old floor-to-ceiling bookcase and placed it near a picture window. This became her favorite place. Meanwhile Meep continued to idolize Kid 2, constantly retrieving trophies from his room: pairs of his socks, a scrap of purple wool pillow-stuffing. She would walk around the house with the wool scrap in her mouth, like a dog with a bone. I have never seen anything like it.
Eventually it became clear that Meep is the alpha cat. It was also obvious that she does not deserve to be the alpha cat. Nutter is smarter, faster, and more observant. Though she now seeks out belly rubs and warm laps, Nutter maintains a healthy survival instinct: she is a superb mouser, and she has hidey holes all over the house (it is especially disconcerting when she emerges from inside the overstuffed armchair in our breakfast room).
By contrast, Meep has been known to bounce off the wall when leaping for a windowsill, and she can’t find a cat treat that is placed under her nose. Still, Meep’s swagger carries the day. If she feels like chasing Nutter all around the house, she does it; if she notices Nutter’s treat, she steals it; if she wants the cat bed by the window, she takes it. Nutter concedes all the power in the relationship, but she’s the cat who would survive on a desert island.
Meep’s approach to love is transactional. Kid 2 was the first to ply her with treats, and so she fell for him deeply and immediately. While nothing will ever shake that loyalty, Meep is also eminently practical. My husband feeds and waters the cats, so over time Meep has slowly extended her grace and favor in his direction. She knows who butters her bread, if you know what I mean: if Kid 2 is asleep, Meep spends the morning preening for my husband.
Meanwhile, Nutter has become a bit unhealthily obsessed with me. I gave both cats a lot of space from the outset, wanting them to bond with the kids; nevertheless, Nutter slowly but surely started to seek me out during the evenings. At first she would silently appear on the arm of my chair, only to immediately disappear if I turned my head. Months later she began tentatively to venture a paw or two onto my lap (launching off—with all claws extended—if any stray noise or movement spooked her). She started to lie down for longer and longer stretches, and even to purr a bit. Now she demands my attention every night.
These two have different takes on love. Meep demands adoration as her proper due, and if her favorite is not around, she shamelessly seeks love elsewhere. Nutter, on the other hand, acts like she has low self-esteem. She looked for affection where it was least evident; then, discovering that her interest was reciprocated, she became a cat obsessed.
It is flattering but not always pleasant to be the object of (even feline) obsessive love. Nutter hides in the bathroom and emerges to stare at me when I least expect it; she has now delivered three mice to our bed in the middle of the night, and one of them was alive. I’d be okay with her dialing things back a notch.
Still, Meep and Nutter are family now. In a few more years, maybe they’ll accept that a belly rub from one person doesn’t preclude a good brushing from another, and that love isn’t a zero sum game. Maybe they’ll also realize that we appreciate them for their own quirks and eccentricities (Meep’s missing internal gyroscope, Nutter’s pathological skittishness), and not for their tributes. They don’t need to bring us socks or mice to be sure of our love.
In fact, it might be nice if they knocked that off.
The cat on the headboard reminds of James Thurber’s seal, in the same place. “Alright, have it your way,” says the perturbed wife to her angry husband, “you heard a seal bark.”
Cat love - the best love - has to be earned.