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First Person

I am too selfish to own a dog. But when a cat accepted my touch and then seemed indifferent, it was a perfect match, R. Justin Matthews writes


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I wanted a pet but dismissed the idea of cat ownership, holding onto some vague notion that it was an undesirable choice for a middle-aged bachelor, or rather, that it made that bachelor undesirable as a choice. I preferred a dog so to tell the world that I, a Man, was a Tamer of Beasts, and not merely a Scooper of Little Poops.

I long envied dog owners near my home on Edmonton's busy Whyte Avenue, where they and their pets are conferred a sort-of royal status as bona fide local attractions. One fellow even owns an earnest and adorable three-legged mutt, making him a king, I infer.

After honest self-examination, however, I accepted that dog ownership wasn't a real option for me. I travel too much, eat out too much, drink too much and sleep too much. In short, I am too selfish, and so perhaps fittingly undeserving of royal title.

Surrendering my place in the hallowed halls of dog ownership didn't extinguish my desire to have a sentient creature beyond myself lounging around my condominium during Edmonton's long winter months.

So, what about a cat?

My family owned a few cats briefly while I grew up in the 1980s in Saint John, but I didn't have many specific memories of them. Cats don't seem to resonate that way.

Our first cat, Kitty, was a short-haired calico stray that ingratiated herself to all but my mother. Accordingly, Kitty gravitated to her, as cats do.

Kitty disappeared one day, never to reappear. My parents tried to comfort me with the supposition that she was a stray, after all, and had likely found a benefactor who offered more delectable scraps of food, perhaps even the great K.C. Irving himself. I carried on, ashamed that my lower middle-class family couldn't earn the loyalty of a creature that will eat garbage.

The next cat was initially named Church, given its supposed grey resemblance to the feline on Stephen King's Pet Sematary. My father fell in love with the distant and elusive cat, his heart wanting what it could never have. Dad constantly roamed the house, monitoring the cat's every hiding spot while calling out to "puss puss," which became the cat's name by mere use. He even cleverly constructed an elaborate shelter for the cat, hoping to encourage a consistent resting spot. It sat unused. The cat steadfastly refused to return my father's cloying affection, as cats do.

Puss Puss came home one day and dropped dead. My undergraduate science student brother's theory was that he had been poisoned by our neighbour, who had been engaged in a continuing feud with my father about fence posts, parking spaces and, perhaps tellingly, cat footprints on his truck.

On the May long weekend last year, I found myself at the SPCA, not to get a cat, but only to investigate the concept.

Of course, I ended up with a cat.

Many of the options were beautiful but swiped at me. My cat was a scowling pear-shaped tuxedo, who, nevertheless, accepted my touch and then seemed indifferent. I was indifferent, too. In a rare moment of spontaneity, I was off with him.

He settled in fine. He ate correctly, expelled properly, talked constantly in a surprising variety of guttural grunts and cuddled when it was convenient. He is far from solitary and actually seems interested in my every move. I suppose he doesn't have much choice.

How my relationship with Fritz unfolded wouldn't be a great concern. In the absolute worst case, he would go back to the SPCA, which is at least a more graceful end than poisoning.

What I couldn't have predicted, however, was how my companionship/ownership/mere association with Fritz would affect how I was perceived by many human beings in my life. I would have garnered less outrage if I started a romantic relationship with a prison pen pal. Discussion included invocation of long-uttered cat critiques juxtaposed with dog puffery.

"Cats aren't loyal like dogs."

Well, neither am I, at times, and, sadly, neither are most humans, situation dependent.

"Dogs are smarter."

And yet they can't do my taxes or clean their own poop.

"A dog won't leave your side if you're dead."

An alleged trait that, in itself, lacks intelligence and would certainly not be reciprocated by their owner.

And, of course, "that cat would eat you if he had to."

Well, many humans eat cat, and the rest of us would happily do so if crisis forced us to before any thought of touching that dented can of peas in the cupboard.

Cats, as the narrative goes, are not defined by love, but by self-interest and indifference, making them inferior to the unfailingly loving and loyal dog. If we consider human relationships, however, I personally consider a bit of indifference healthier than one party receiving unequivocal devotion that the other could never reciprocate. I haven't actually met a human that lives only to please me, but I'm betting that I wouldn't like it much.

A human's relationship with their cat is arguably based upon an implied agreement that reinforces basic independence and equality, which are laudable features in modern human relationships.

In contrast, our ownerships of dogs sometimes seem dolloped with uncomfortable doses of control and servitude.

My relationship with Fritz doesn't need morbid devotion. What we have is honest. I enlisted Fritz to warm my lap on occasion. For his part, I assume he grunted his intentions the first time I plopped him on my couch: "Okay, give me food and a clean place to poop and I'll put up with you. If you don't feed me, I'll find someone that will, because I'm smart like that. I prefer to live."

Recently, I've caught myself wondering if Fritz would be okay with me getting a dog. After all, we might both appreciate a foil.

R. Justin Matthews lives in Edmonton.