What Are Pets For?

Beginning in childhood I have lived with a changing parade of dogs, cats and parakeets, except for when I was single in my thirties. The joys of new motherhood aside, those pet-less years were the best of my life. I was free to go anywhere, anytime. Spontaneity was my middle name. Take off to Europe for a few weeks? No problem. Go away for the weekend? Sounds great! Now a retired empty-nester in my 70s, nevertheless I remain tethered -- all because of a cat. 

Specifically Lurch, our 16-year-old Maine Coon, the last in a long line of adorable, loving, fluffy and furry four-footed companions. While he is still all that, in his latter years he's become somewhat of a demanding, demented, picky pain in the ass, making me wonder why so many people, specifically me, opt for pets in the first place. 

I wondered this a lot yesterday when, in the midst of a home renovation project involving several workers drilling holes into walls and generally causing a ruckus, Lurch freaked out and ran directly into the maelstrom, falling into an opening in an attic-type space between the second and first floors of our house from which he could not exit unassisted.

Sparing the details, which are ugly, I'll say that his entrapment lasted a little over 25 hours, during which many tears were shed by yours truly. Lurch too cried mournfully for much of the time, his pitiful wails echoing through the walls. But despite my husband and I creating an exit strategy for him he stayed put, avoiding freedom and instead making our lives miserable. 

I worried he would die up there with no food or water or fresh air. But so what if he had? All the pets that came before him had died, bringing me unspeakable sadness each time. What's another dead cat anyway, I asked myself. He's just a cat, I told myself. Lots of people never have any pets, I reasoned. Thinking of all the money he's cost us in food alone -- forget pet-sitters and vet bills and that $150 for the pet psychic that time he was lost -- I put a pillow over my head and cried myself to sleep.

First thing this morning my son came to our aid and somehow, employing a combination of dexterity and determination, rescued both Lurch and my sanity. Now the cat is safely in custody under my bed, seemingly asleep but possibly suffering from PTSD from his harrowing experience. I know I am. And I'm wondering why.