I like pandas.

Suzy died Monday evening. She was my cat, in case you were wondering. Well, “my” in as much a way as anyone can actually possess a feline. She was a foster pet, a decision made by my (now) ex-wife years ago that I initially was vehemently against.

See, I’m not really a cat person. Most of my family dislikes cats for one reason or another, we’ve always preferred the company of canine companions. A cat? Who’d choose a cat over a dog? Cats don’t fetch, cats don’t beg, cats don’t roll over on command, cats don’t bark at intruders, cats don’t tackle you when you come home from work, look you in the eye and think “Oh my god, where were you? I missed you so much, never leave again!” while their tails furiously wag. Dogs are clearly the superior pet, it’s just common knowledge.

Regardless, the missus was insistent, and who was I to deny her a pet? Especially after the decision to hold off on starting a family of our own until we were financially stable and secure in our respective careers. We weren’t going to make the mistakes our parents made. She’d been volunteering at a local animal shelter to get work–and social–experience, and they offered her a chance to bring home a rescue. A “hard luck” case, a cat that had lived nearly her entire life behind the shelter’s walls. No one wants to adopt adults, especially those that aren’t immediately sociable. And also, people aren’t big fans of overweight orange tabbies ‘round these parts, it seems.

Yes, like Garfield. And a female, which is slightly uncommon. (1 out of 5, I believe.)

I relented, and we brought her home. She cried the entire drive, that low-pitched, unnatural wail that sounds like it’d come from an entirely different animal. We sat down her kennel and opened the door. Of course she didn’t come out at first, which my wife assured me was normal (she’d had several cats in the past, so she was an expert on these matters). It was also normal for “Suzy Q” (I still hate that name) to hide under the bed, the dresser, or whatever other cover she could find for the first month.

“What the hell kind of pet is this?” I complained. “She won’t let me pet her, feed her, get near her…I swear to god, if she hisses at me again, I’ll put her on the balcony.” It was a process, the wife reassured me. Suzy had never been in a home before, she was still figuring out her surroundings. She’d come around in time.

Time passed. The wife left, I went through a rather intense depression, and I lost my job of 9 years. But the cat remained. She outlasted my marriage, the damn thing. I still didn’t want a cat, but what could I do? I couldn’t just “send her back to the shelter,” as my ex suggested. How cruel would that be? Finally getting used to having a home, getting the good cat food with the meaty chunks, and the fancy litter with the easy scooping. Even my family started coming around to her.

“Never thought that cats were cute. But yours…she’s kinda cute. She’s alright.” - my mom.

Even after all of that, I still would have rather had a dog. So I made a compromise. I trained the cat instead. Taught her to sit. Taught her to beg. And she started pulling her own weight killing bugs, mainly. It wasn’t much, but it was something. She never did quite figure out how to retract her claws when I’d pet her or scratch behind her ears. I have the holes in my clothes and sheets to show for it.

I never really thought of her as being a “pet.” Just…a responsibility. Like raising a child that’s not yours. Or a roommate, maybe. Perhaps it was just my way of not becoming too attached. She was still a foster, after all. I didn’t even want her in the first place. Someone could run across her profile on the adoption site at any time and say “Oh my god, this is the cat I’ve been looking for!” Someone who actually wanted a cat could have their dream pet, and she’d be whisked off to her dream home. That’s all I was there for, right? Rehabilitation. And me, personally? I’d be rid of a reminder of a failed relationship; a pest that clawed at my carpet and threw up if I didn’t feed her when she wanted, that nested in my favorite winter coat and turned it more orange than black, that ran around like her tail was on fire at 3 am if I didn’t close the bedroom door. 

She was anemic. I had no idea what anemia looked like. I still don’t, really. Something about white gums? I just knew she was acting funny. So I took her to the vet. And then she was gone. He assured me that it wasn’t my fault, that cats tend to hide illness and injury until it’s almost too late. The signs are completely different for dogs and cats. Maybe I really am a dog person.

Or maybe she’d won me over long ago, and I never realized it until I was sobbing in a veterinarian’s office. And now…now I remember what it was like before. It’s so quiet.

I’m still not a cat person, by the way. Just a Suzy person.