A one-eyed cat taught me the limits of personal growth

Part 1 of a story about knowing when to quit

Finding myself on the floor of an animal rescue shelter using a stick with ribbons attached to it trying to coax a one-eyed kitten out of a corner was so far from my normal behavior that it felt like an out of body experience.

I’m not sure what’s required for a formal diagnosis of ailurophobia, but given that multiple cats in my life have led to me hiding in a bathroom and popping my head out to throw things to distract them, I think I qualify. I want to be supportive of cat people but I just can’t get past their slinky bodies always rubbing up against something, the beady eyes plotting an attack, the dexterity and ability to leap anywhere, and, obviously, the claws.

There are people who prefer dogs, people who don’t like cats, and people who were forced to cat sit for their neighbor’s 20 pound cat and were scratched and tried to not go back but were told by their mother that it was important to be a good neighbor. I’m all three.

When I moved to Michigan for both Jeff and a job, getting a puppy was number one on my list of things I was excited about and I gleefully started sending Jeff pictures of toy poodles. He tried to influence the decision by saying “well, this dog is both of ours and I really like big dogs like labs…” I was shocked he thought we’d negotiate the dog breed when he already had an ex and three kids requiring constant negotiation. Pepper moved in one day after I got the keys to my apartment and before my furniture arrived.

Pepper was (and is) perfect: brilliant and high energy and super fun and easily trained and honestly I could write 5,000 words about how much I love her but I recognize no one cares that much. We bonded so closely that Jeff suggested getting a second dog to be Pepper’s friend and hopefully break some of Pepper’s attachment. When Sam arrived, he ended up following Pepper everywhere so instead of having one shadow, I had two.

Regardless, two sweet puppies were not quite enough to balance the drama of three teens/tweens. The middle school years were extremely challenging, as they are for everyone, but especially Youngest who navigated bullying and changing schools every year from 5th to 8th grade.

The summer before 8th grade began, Youngest started lobbying for a therapy dog. She presented research that said it would help with her anxiety and companionship and would teach her responsibility. However our HOA said only two dogs per home so the therapy dog was out. Youngest continued to research saying that because it’s a service animal, those guidelines don’t apply and that we could get a specially trained service animal for $15,000. Ummm… therapy dog was most definitely out.

I suggested she come up with another pet that might make more sense. In short order she proposed: a tarantula, a snake or some giant dragon lizard thing. So I had to introduce new criteria: the selected animal must be one where if it got out of its tank/habitat, I wouldn’t have a heart attack upon finding it. A rabbit or chinchilla reminded us that the chosen pet cannot be seen as prey by our dogs. When a parrot was mentioned, I suggested that an 80 year lifespan seemed like a big commitment. I almost caved on two rats (apparently they get lonely) but Youngest said they tend to die after 2-3 years… not exactly a con in my mind, but we had slightly different goals.

One day when Youngest came home from school after a particularly bad day, I watched her nuzzle and hug Pepper and thought we were in the clear. I got up off the couch to go to the kitchen and Pepper leapt out of Youngest’s arms to chase after me. At that precise moment, my cold dark heart started to thaw and I realized that as long as they were my dogs, Youngest would still lack something to just be hers in a world where she was already lonely.

I went back through my list of animals and thought if we could adopt a kitten that had already been declawed, I could potentially work through my fears. Our dogs had stayed with cat owners before and both they and the cats survived. After several Google searches on whether cats were conspiring against humans proved inconclusive, I told my husband and then Youngest that I thought I could do it.

At the shelter, there were two options: a cute gray striped cat with a little orange patch between her eyes who was extremely high energy and a one-eyed tortoiseshell with stitches over the missing eye that looked like it had been the big loser at Cat Fight Club. The little gray cat had the looks and personality of a future Instagram star. Jeff began brainstorming names for her while I started thinking about my animal influencer monetization strategy.

In the meantime, Youngest honed in on Ye Olde One-Eye with laser-like focus. She spent 20 minutes trying to coax the cat out from under the corner cupboard. When she finally succeeded, the cat climbed into her lap and started purring while Youngest leaned down and hugged her. This was her cat. Since it was fall (thus “Hocus Pocus” season) and the cat had one eye, I wanted to name it Thackery Winks but Youngest opted for Ying.

In an effort to cultivate a relationship, I would go into Youngest’s room every afternoon while she was at school to try and play with Ying and work through my fears. Ying was absolutely very cute — and, once the stitches were removed, the missing eye was not unnerving in the least. Ultimately, however, she’s a cat and the only cats I’m not afraid of are the ones who stay away from me. Ying liked to lurk on the staircase where I wasn’t expecting her which caused me to scream whenever I saw her. Ying then learned that I was the person who screamed so would preemptively hiss at me. This cycle repeated daily and was not the Pavlovian response that I’d hoped to cultivate in any animal.

By all accounts from everyone who interacted with her, Ying was a very sweet cat. But she was still a cat and I was still afraid of cats, highly neurotic, and extremely jumpy. I suggested a collar with bells so that I could hear Ying wherever she was and maybe reduce my own anxiety but it turns out Ying wasn’t a fan of the bells and figured out how to take them off. I wasn’t used to animals that could literally jump into and climb through a Christmas tree so no branch was safe. Gates that kept dogs back were easily jumped by the cat. We were now in the early days of Covid so everyone was home and I was texting my husband to locate the cat before I could safely leave our bedroom. Not the stress management strategy I needed in those unprecedented times.

I’d love for this story to be an amazing one of evolution and personal growth — ideally, my own. Alas, it is a story about resourcefulness.

After 8th grade and, largely due to pandemic school challenges, Youngest was headed to boarding school the next fall. The thought of being at home with the cat who hated me was not one I could bear and we were able to get a therapist to deem the cat an emotional support animal. Youngest happily headed off to school with Ying and I happily found some peace and calm in my home. Turns out my evolution wasn’t conquering my fear of cats. It was recognizing that my daughter’s future and my neuroses could align perfectly with the boarding school application deadline.