I have no problem admitting that my cats are two of the most important beings in my life. My kitties are my companions, always there to greet me at the door after an especially exhausting day serving the masses. Hell, Audrey won't even let me in the door before she is crying to be picked up and held. I am not a crazy cat lady.
Skylie is eleven years old, and in all of those years of her and me against the world, it stands to reason that she would be jealous of the tiny, big-eyed invader that perches up on my shoulder. She looks at me with those green eyes accusing, and it may seem silly, but I feel like I've betrayed her in a way. Skylie, that aging diva, has seen me at my absolute lowest and she let me bury my face in her side and cry my angry, pubescent tears with nothing but love and patience. Trust me when I say it, I mean my absolute worst. I spent so many nights in her younger years, sobbing and explaining to her my grief in a language she can't possibly understand because there is no fear of judgment. It was the best of both worlds, really. Being able to be my absolute truest self alone without ever being alone. She was and still is my best friend. I am not a crazy cat lady.
Audrey is so new and so excitable. She is still a tiny, energetic baby. She meets me every day at the door when I come home, and whether I'm gone for five minutes or five hours, she is just as happy to see me. She dances around my boots and meows up at me like the world is whole again. Audrey came to live with us because she needed me. She was abandoned and alone, she needed a home. It is pretty clear to me now that I need her just as much as she needs me. There is something tragic about coming home to an empty house, no lovably obnoxious roommate asking me "What's up?" while I'm standing in the doorway with my uniform on under my winter gear or barreling into my room to tackle me while I'm reading. There's not anybody anymore, just the girls and me. Despite their best efforts, it is still painfully lonely sometimes. I think Audrey sees that as a challenge. The more withdrawn I become, the more she cries for attention. She is very good at reminding me that the house isn't really so empty, and I love her so much for it. I am not a crazy cat lady.
Interacting with people has never been nor will ever be something I am good at. I overthink all situations and spend too long mulling over the right words or the proper emphasis that I usually don't end up saying anything. I'm an awkward duck. Cats are just easier. They either don't realize or don't care about what makes me special or unique (read: weird or crazy). My girls put up with a lot of ridiculous shit from me that, God willing, no human eyes will ever need to witness. And for what, you ask? For meals on time, for fresh water in the bowl (though Skylie still prefers drinking from the toilet) and the occasional scratch behind the ear. They don't play mind games, they aren't interested in some ulterior motive, they just want to soak up love.
I am not a crazy cat lady.
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