Being only in my early 20s I’m not a mother, so far keeping my vision of my life on track for what I personally want. However, since I adopted a spunky domestic shorthaired cat a year ago I feel as if I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone where I’m the harried mother of a rambunctious teenager.
Blizzard, or as my friends unaffectionately call her, White Devil, was a meek as a mouse when we brought her home; choosing to take refuge behind the TV stand for the first week and only coming out when she had a clear shot at the green fuzzy ball I set up as bait.
Now, one year later she is much more confident of her place in the household and, in her eyes, that place is at the top.
In my early days as a first-time cat owner I was concerned she would need more fresh air than what she was getting and tried many times to wrestle the tiny feline into the backyard. We had to keep to my work schedule as I refuse to let her wander all over the neighbourhood as some of my neighbors do.
It took some coaxing, and more than a few band aids, but I finally convinced her the outdoors and direct sunshine would not turn her to dust. Now she is addicted to the backyard and all its creepy crawlies.
One day I was in a hurry for a scheduled engagement, already behind, and could not find the cat anywhere. I searched the house high and low, calling all the while, which is something she normally responds to.
When I heard no jangling bell the suspicious detective in the back of my mind told me to check outside with the dog while the rest of my optimistic brain told me she couldn’t open doors. Much to my dismay she was lazily sunning herself in the grass.
Like any stereotypical teenager my little kitty knows how to sneak out and was poised to have adventures all her own. She only made it a few feet before “rest mode” took over, adding lazy to her list of stereotypical teen traits.
Blizzard is quite possessive of her space and no one can enter “her room” without her rushing out from whatever cranny she was lurking in to supervise.
The spare room still looks fairly typical to the naked eye; bed, dresser, floor lamp, but if you look hard enough you will find many similarities between it and teen girl’s room. The only difference is this one coughs hairballs.
If you lift up the leather loveseat you find a variety of bobby pins, hair elastics, Kinder Surprise toys, sticker and so much more, haphazardly arranged for her easy access.
Also like any stereotypical teen girl, Blizzard, despite having adopted her spayed, seems to be getting a little boy-crazy. Either that or she is a self-promoter and showoff, which these days is a huge portion of the Facebook population. On a sunny day, when she is not sitting at the backdoor plotting her next escape Blizzard can be found licking and grooming herself on the front bay windowsill. One day I walked by during one of her grooming sessions and noticed three other cats known in the neighbourhood sitting on my front lawn watching. Apparently I too can slip into that “protective father” role and a softly thrown flip-flop corrected that situation.
While on vacation I left the cat with my parents for the week, where she was treated like the spoiled grandchild she wishes she was. Not only did they go out and buy toys that would stay there for her next visit but they made sure to send a few new ones home with me — as if she needs more than the ones already overrunning the house.
Even with all her personality quirks I love my cat. She is well behaved, for the most part, and even a year later the furniture is in the same condition it was when we brought her home. She loves to play, snuggle when she is in the mood and is a fan of the Batman movies.
However, I hope when I do have a child and it turns out to be a girl she will be a little less rambunctious than the surrogate I have now and that I will not need to put a bell around her neck to track her down.
Amelia Naismith is the reporter/photographer of The Leduc/Wetaskiwin Pipestone Flyer and writes a regular column for the paper.