You can start reading āCuredā anywhere.
Enjoying āCuredā? Read the prequel, āPathologicalā (HarperCollins):
š§ Listen to Sarah read this installment of Cured:
The decision to get another cat isnāt one my family necessarily agrees with. Six months ago, I had a kitten that had been taken from her mother too young and not socialized properly, and I ended up rehoming her.1 When I tell my sister about trying again, she says, āOh, Sarah,ā her voice redolent with concerned disapproval. My father responds, āOh, okayā with encouraging bewilderment. My mother says, āAre you sure?ā and proceeds to recap the highlights from the kitten saga.
A therapist would likely say that my reasons for getting another cat arenāt sound. To some degree, Iām using him to prove that I really have healed from serious mental illness. Thereās plenty of other evidence: teaching is going well, and Iāve started doing publicity for my memoir Pathological. But having a cat, a creature I bond with and take care of after being so unwell and feeling so hopeless I couldnāt live independently for five years, would be something akin to water-tight evidence.
Iām also making the mistake of believing this cat will make me happy. The internet says his breed are some of the friendliest, sweetest, cuddliest cats in existence. In the photo, his sweet face says heād never attack me. Never. It will be perfect.
When I pick him up, his owner takes him out of the carrier to show him to me. Heās a Birman tabbyāsweet-faced and stocky with white-gloved paws, deep-blue eyes, and a champion floofy tail. (Birmans were originally temple cats, bred in Burma to catch mice, so the monks didnāt have to deal with the vermin. Tabby cats have stripes on their legs and markings in the shape of an m on their foreheads.) His father is the number four Birman in the world and the number one Birman Tabby. (Yes, cat shows are bizarre and cruel. You can read about my experience attending one here.) And bigānine pounds.
Heās too shy to be a show cat; that and the markings on his back paws arenāt quite long enough. His shyness is also why he wasnāt adopted with the rest of his litter.
He submits to her but with a little sass. He doesnāt seem shy. Confident, actually. A little bossy.
She puts him back in the carrier. We sign the requisite papers and talk for a bit. I open the carrier and poke my head in. He hisses at me.
I jump back. āHe hissed.ā
āOh, just ignore him when he does that.ā
Thereās still time to tell her Iām not going to take him. She assures me he ānever bites.ā I pick up the carrier, pay, and thank her.
*
For the first two days, he mostly hides under the bed. This is fine with me. No attacks. I worry because he isnāt eating, but eventually, he eats the food I slide under the bed. He scouts out the apartment at night while I sleep.
It takes a few days, but he finally comes out in the daylight. Heās all floof. His gorgeous white coat is long and luxurious. The fur on his tail is as wide as his body. His belly is Buddha-big. I name him Sweetsāin the hope that calling him that will ensure he is.
*
The shyness he exhibited when he arrived quickly fades. Iām convinced he faked it to get out of the hard work of being a show cat. Initially, I wanted to play more often than he did. He used to stroll around my apartmentāfrom the water fountain to his food bowl for a snack, around the kitchen to the scratching post, around the main room, and back to the bedroom to play quietly or shimmy under the bed for another nap. Now, he wants to play every time heās awake and viciously attacks the wand toy.
One evening while putting food in his bowl, he comes around for a pet. I scratch his back, which he seems to prefer over his head. He purrs louder than he has since he arrived. I scratch. He purrs. I scratch. His floofy tail goes up with satisfaction.
He turns and looks at me with crisp blue eyesāand bites me. I snap my hand away and go into the bathroom. No blood. He has adult teeth that arenāt as sharp.
I jump back and walk away from him. My stomach sinks.
*
There is no definition of happiness. Even those who claim to have found it canāt fully describe it. What we identify as happiness is usually conditional happiness, which is dependent on a person or object. Most of us mistake it for perfection. Itās the illusion of control, getting what we want when we want it, and never feeling painful emotions or having troubling thoughts and experiences.
*
When I get home from teaching one night, he comes out of the bedroom, his eyes sleepy. He utters low, abbreviated meows. Cat complaints: Where have you been? I was all alone.
One spring evening, Iām sitting at the kitchen table. Heās in the other room. Itās not how I wanted it to be. No cuddles.
I sense something in the room. I look up. Sweets sits in the doorway. His white fur extends almost like an aura around his plump body. His eyes are sleepy, almost soporific. Heās pure calm, like a little Buddha. He considers me, his expression saying, Why are you trying to control what canāt be controlled?
A calmness comes over me. Heās a little ornery and seems strangely dissatisfied with life. He finds safety under cover: the bed, my desk, any chairs. He likes his alone time and to be petted when and how he wants it. Heās shy, anxious, untrusting, reclusive, and has difficulty accepting affection. He bonks his head on the wall, petting himself when he wants attention. If he were human, a psychiatrist might call his quirks ādisorders.ā
My love for him has grown because of these quirks. Heās mine to care for. I get to love him, not the other way around, necessarily. After a few months, heāll trust me enough to sleep at the bottom of my bed. Soon, heāll be the boss of the house, not allowed on the counter and the table and consistently lying on both.
Iāll start to strive not for happiness but contentmentāin all things. Contentment is so often ignored while happiness hogs the limelight. To be contented meansāfeeling or showing satisfaction with oneās possessions, status, or situation.ā Itās enoughness. Just saying the word contented makes my stomach release. Just typing this paragraph stills my mind.
Contentment isnāt ambitious; happiness is a race for who can do, have, say, and feel the most. Contentment asks us to look at what we already have. For me, itās my balcony looking out onto the lake so blue that it shimmers, my couch, the cat tree, the cat toys, the cat baskets and tunnels, and Sweets.Ā
Readers like you make my work possible. Support independent journalism by becoming a paid subscriber. For $30/year, the price of a hardcover book, you help me continue to bring my writing to readers all over the world.
Read all available chapters of Cured.
Cat people, note: the kitten is very happy in her new home. It turns out you arenāt cosmically punished for rehoming a pet. One of my students at the university where I teach works at Chicagoās Humane Society. I admit to her that I rehomed Zosi and tell her how terrible I feel. āDonāt,ā she says. āWe donāt want people to keep an adopted pet if itās not working out. Pets sense that sort of thing.ā