Becoming a [Cat] Person

I was a shell of a person before I met Kimchi.

This is part two. For how it started, check out my essay “Before I Was a Cat Person.”

Ten years ago, I moved into an apartment in LA with Amy, an actress I met on Craigslist, and her two cats. Izzy was a friendly older boy cat, a gray and white calico with some extra girth. Every night, he’d knead his paws into a castoff black sweater and moan inconsolably. Callie was a skittish brown tabby girl with very soft fur. I’d never lived with pets who could roam the home at will, so I kept my bedroom door shut most of the time. Closed doors make good roommates, but Izzy and Callie were desperate to trespass, explore my closet, and prance across my desk. When they snuck in, they climbed into my boxes and suitcases, rolled around on my bed, and hid in my closet. I regarded them warily and tried to keep my distance — as much as I could, considering my bathroom door didn’t have a doorknob. Perhaps I would’ve gone the rest of my life unaware of my true self, if it weren’t for my ex-boyfriend and a one-eyed kitten named Audrie. 

I’d lived with Amy’s cats for three months when I met my ex. I didn’t know he was a cat person. “You can’t let a girl know how much you like cats at first,” he told me later. “You’ve got to play it cool.” But the truth came out quickly. He’d always loved cats, and soon, he loved these cats. Every time he arrived at my apartment, he’d greet me, then look around, asking, “Where are the beasts?” Izzy, eager for pets and a lap to walk across, was first to be found. (The best gift I ever gave Izzy was a strong male role model.) Then the hunt turned to Callie, who was usually in hiding and therefore a creature of much intrigue. My ex-boyfriend would open my bedroom door, and he’d let — no, lure — the cats in. All boundaries I’d set with the cats went out the window. Now both my partner and my roommate kept remarking on how I ignored the cats and rarely pet them. Determined to prove that while I wasn’t an animal person, I was not a monster, I started to pay attention to the cats and enjoy their quirks. And when Callie targeted me for attention, I made sure to brag about it. 

A year after I’d moved in, my roommate adopted a third cat. Audrie was just a few weeks old when she was found by the side of the road with one eye infected and in need of surgery. When she came to our home, she was tiny and wild, with a row of fresh stitches where her eye had been and a tiny white belly shaved pink. Audrie disrupted the apartment’s tenuous cat hierarchy; an alpha wriggling herself somewhere between king Izzy and beta Callie. A kitten trying to play looks a lot like she’s trying to harass her seniors, and Audrie was the ultimate player. 

The rooms where it happened.

But forget what she did to the cats. This girl destroyed me. Within days, my phone was filled with videos and photos of her: stretching out across my bed, hiding inside a bucket, picking fights with Izzy, scaling the bookshelf, sticking her head in my water glass… Was it just her tiny size? Her missing eye? Her fresh off streets DGAF je ne sais quoi? Yes, all of the above; it was love!

When I moved out of Amy’s apartment a year later, I gave all three cats heartfelt goodbyes. I told them they’d changed me, and I’d never be the same. I was a cat person now. A cat person needs a cat. Maybe not immediately, but eventually. I set a long timeline (as I loved doing in my 20s, to really savor how young I was). In 16 years I’d be 40, and I’d get a cat.

Fast forward a few years, and I met my now-husband, Josh, a dog person who agreed to be molded. We texted photos of our dream brown tabby cat back and forth. I read The Trainable Cat; we had cat-parenting discussions and negotiations. We named her Kimchi before she was even born, and we talked about her constantly, to the point where people sometimes thought we were talking about a cat we actually had, not our future cat. We kept a shared iPhone note, so we’d know her when we found her.

The only thing missing is the walks/backpacks, which we’re too protective to explore.

After I moved in with Josh, finally, it was Kimchi time. I was 29, so I beat my goal by 11 years. Kimchi was nine months old when we met her at Santé D’Or, a cat rescue in Atwater Village. She put her front paws on Josh’s chest and nibbled at the buttons on his sweater. She hissed at two other cute cats who came to steal our attention away. The next day we visited again, and she jumped onto my shoulder. And the case was closed. We were hers.

Within days of taking her home, I transformed on a spiritual and cellular level. I felt joy like never before. Josh caught me whispering concerning things to her, like, “I was a shell of a person before I met you.” I woke up every morning and remembered the thrilling truth: “I have a cat!” Josh took a bit longer to warm up, but once Kimchi settled in and became the perfect lap cat, he was a smitten kitten. “I would jump in front of a car for her,” he said to me once. “But I probably shouldn’t, right?”

From what I remember, in Bringing Up Bébé: One American Mother Discovers the Wisdom of French Parenting, author Pamela Druckerman advocates for how French parents maintain boundaries around parenthood. Once the kids go to bed, the parents stop talking about them or worrying about them. It’s adult time! Adult conversations only! Josh and I do not do this with Kimchi. We close her out of our bedroom each night (not because we want to, but because she loves to jump on us and meow incessantly every few hours). Then, alone in our room, Josh and I tell each other every little thing Kimchi did that day. Funny, interesting, different from before, the same as always… It doesn’t matter. We just feel like talking about her. I leave the room to get some water and get distracted petting and playing with Kimchi. When I get back, Josh asks, “How’s Kimchi doing? Is she being cute?” “Oh, extra cute.”

Kimchi!

When we’re on vacation, we spend the day looking for local cats in the wild and end the night scrolling through photos of Kimchi. During our honeymoon in Puerto Vallarta, we found Isla de los Gatos, a neighborhood with a bunch of feral cats. We played “wand” with the cats using sticks — so fun! The next night we decided to take the long route home from dinner and walk through it again because why not! In Tokyo earlier this year, we enjoyed the significant role cats play in Japanese aesthetics and culture. After visiting three cat cafes, we concluded that we really do have the best cat in the world.

Getting my cat fix in Tokyo.

Kimchi prances to the door to greet me when I get home. She watches out the window as I leave. She shakes hands on command (trainable, see?). She naps on my lap. She makes me laugh. She demands belly rubs. She slams herself into the windows to catch shadows. She has different meows for different purposes: one to demand food, one to communicate with hummingbirds, one to say goodbye when we leave the house, one to make her demands sound cuter. She helps us hunt bugs, although Josh thinks she’s a little bit sociopathic on that front. (Don’t worry too much about the bugs though. As I learned in my high school Zoology/Botany course: “No brain, no pain.”) Kimchi may not have Theory of Mind, but I know she loves me back. I tell her all the time, “You’ve got a great life, and you deserve it!”

The other day, I filled out a home insurance form. A question: “Do you have any pets? If a dog, what breed? Has your dog ever bitten anyone?” I wrote, “Yes, we have a cat. She’s perfect.” The insurance broker sent back the completed form, where she’d paraphrased my answer to, “No pets.” 

No pets. Just one perfect, love-of-my-life cat.