Pleasant Street Catastrophe

Dottie the Elder, the monochromatic old lady cat with the mysterious punctuation mark on her nose that my brilliant chum Samantha calls her ‘catastrophe’, was nestled in my armpit staring at me serenely while I whimpered and whined to her about feeling like a birdhole. I’d hit yet another impasse with the fella I love, but can’t seem to feel sure of, since I’m keeper of a never-ending spreadsheet of evidence that He Loves Me / He Loves Me Not. Yes, he said he loved me on the phone earlier, but then he responded ‘ok’ to a sweet text I’d labored over, and those two little missing letters, the absolutely crucial ‘ay’ on ‘okay’, told my birdhole brain that he’s sick of me and I need to shut my bird-pie-hole. And on and on. I’ve exhausted him, I’ve exhausted myself, I’ve exhausted Dottie.

Dottie, who isn’t even my damn cat. 

Dottie, Knitting Assistant

I mean, yes, I’ve had her since December 3, 2006, when the kids and I went to Wayside Waifs with my then-beau S. to check out the cats. The kids and I selected Bob, who was a fine fellow, a dog in a cat body. S’s head had been turned by sweet black and white Dottie, who was just three months old, and he determined to adopt her, but since we were heading towards cohabitation, she came home to my place with Bob and the kids so they could get used to each other.

Bob, Beard Aficionado, RIP

But we didn’t end up living together, S. and I weren’t the right fit, and here I am 18 years later with Little Miss Catastrophe purring into my armpit. 

I asked her if she ever missed S., but she didn’t answer because she’s a cat. 

She may or may not miss P, who brought the boys marshmallow guns and eye protection, and showed up at the oddest hours, zombie tired from insanely long shifts as a locomotive engineer. 

Marshmallow Guns

She may or may not miss the next S., who tried to cook bacon in the broiler on Christmas Day because he’d read it in Gourmet Magazine, which led to a Yuletide evacuation while the smoke alarm blared and we opened every door and window in the place to get the burning stink out.

I’d be surprised if she missed the next S., who always smelled like leather and weed and gin, and whose motorcycle was too loud. 

She might miss J., the Guybrarian, who was sweet and full of dad jokes and arcane knowledge, but also gripped by anxiety that made my brain-whirling look as complicated as a Sunday-school coloring sheet of sweet baby Jesus in the manger. 

I know she doesn’t miss P., because he wasn’t ever really mine, but more like an Air B&B that I liked to visit. 

I have no idea how Dottie feels about my current love, since he lives a couple hours away and has only been in my nest twice so far, though she seems to like being on FaceTime with us. 

Seven partners, 18 years, what a track record. Am I incapable of having a healthy, secure romantic relationship with another human? Would Dottie dump me if she could? Am I the real catastrophe on Pleasant Street? Will Dottie live long enough to nibble on my corpse when I inevitably die alone? I hope so. She deserves a treat after bearing witness to my witlessness all these years.