In late 2022, I tried having a cat for the first time. It didn’t last long.
My pals, whom I visit frequently, had a cat that seemed to like me (s/o to Snow the Cat), which warmed me up to the idea of a feline friend. I also figured a cat might make me seem more emotionally layered, particularly with the ladies (Don’t hate the playa, hate the game!).
Preparations for cat fatherhood were soon underway. I got a large old carton that was supposed to be the cat’s litter, bought some sawdust, and a feeding bowl. I was ready to be a cat dad; all that remained was to go get the cat from Cousin.
The kitten I found was like the scraps left over when you show up late to a function—when the food’s gone, and only bits and remnants remain.
She was gaunt, with bulging eyes that reminded me of Looney Tunes characters after they’d been hit by a frying pan. Not to be vain, but the cat wasn’t ‘cute’.
I asked the cuz, Bro, kwani humpei food? He said she doesn’t like to eat. So I followed up with, Is she sick? He said no.
I took the emaciated feline, put her in the back of Adhis, and set off to my house to start life as pet and pet owner.
Living with the cat was never easy. The little thing had zero enthusiasm and zeal for life. She barely ate and spent her days perched on the armrest of the couch, blinking in slow motion at everything, presumably hoping it would all end soon (I suspect she was depressed!).
When I tried to play with her (PAUSE!), she wasn’t too interested. She’d play with the string (PAUSE!!) for a moment, get bored, and go back to her broody self.
Now I’m not a narcissist, but I do believe that if you get a pet, the furry friend should be fun (and cute!). I asked God, Why would you give me a boring cat, dear Lord? Is there a lesson here? I was met by silence.
A month in, I was done with Phoebe the Cat, and not just because she was insipid, but also coz of the work involved in raising her. Suddenly, my life involved emptyimg and refilling the litter box twice a week, trying out different cat foods because the furry pal was a picky eater, and getting fur all over my clothes, house, and life.
One Monday at dusk, I said f*ck it and called the nduthi guy. I put Phoebe in a box, poked some holes, and got onto the bike, with the box in hand.
He asked Tunaenda wapi, and in a rather dead-serious, movie-villain voice, I said, Just drive.
When we’d covered some good distance, I spotted a shabby speakeasy that struck me as the perfect new home for Phoebe the Cat, as right by the bar’s entrance, a young enterprising lad grilled mtura and other meaty bitings for the local drunks.
I figured if I left Phoebe there, she would always have food around her.
I crossed to the other side of the road, opened the box, and let the cat out, leaving her to pambana with life. I hopped back onto the bike and back home I went, grappling with a tinge of sadness. I’d gotten used to her moodiness and lethargy, but she ultimately lacked the warmth I selfishly expected from a pet, and for that, she had to go.
Am I proud? Not really. But I have made worse choices.
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