I didn’t plan on getting a new cat after my beloved companion Juno passed away a few months ago at the age of probably-12. After all, she was with me for nine years. That’s not the sort of grief you get over very quickly. Besides, my house is awfully small and already contains two humans (average size) and two dogs (one large, one medium.) Adding another critter didn’t seem like good engineering.

But life finds a way. (Yes, I’m quoting “Jurassic Park.”) In this case, my roommate’s ex got back in touch with her. When they separated last winter, the ex kept their two cats. But a few weeks ago, she moved and her new apartment would only allow her one cat. So she asked my roommate would she take the second cat, and my roommate asked me, and what was I going to do? Say no to a long-lost feline family member? Of course not.

Her name is Ginger, which has long been one of my little sister’s nicknames. Yes, I’ve been having way too much fun referring to Ginger the Cat versus Ginger the Human. Ginger is a non-indicative name – she’s a tuxedo cat with little white fur-gloves on her paws (she is always the fanciest dressed in the house). She’s about 5 years old and 5 pounds soaking wet.

Ginger is more naturally timid and risk-averse than Juno was. She spent her first week in the house under my roommate’s bed; the second week, she ventured on top of it (very brave!). I have mistaken a dropped sweater for Ginger more than once, including making little kissy noises at it … for several minutes. (Coincidentally, I got new glasses recently.)

My dogs are thrilled. Possibly a little too thrilled. Karma thinks Ginger is her new best friend and doesn’t understand why the kitty doesn’t want to play and wrestle with her. It might have something to do with Ginger being barely even the size of Karma’s head. (Talk about “Jurassic Park!”) Despite Karma’s otherwise loosey-goosey interpretation of “rules” and “boundaries,” she’s been pretty respectful of not stepping over the household Maginot Line, also known as the line where the color of carpet demarcating her room changes. Janey, who remembers a time when she had free rein of the house, has a little more trouble with that boundary.

When push comes to shove, Ginger’s a brave little girl. On one occasion, the dogs accidentally trapped Ginger in a corner. Ginger hissed and growled, which caused Janey – who understands cat communication – to bark, which caused Karma to be uncontrollably excited, thinking they were all playing and making noise together. But the tiny cat never shrinks or backs down. She stands her ground (unless a human scoops her up, which she also protests against). And when she hears the dogs’ kibble hitting the bowl, she roars like a lion for her fair share. She’s loud for a critter whose lungs are probably the size of chicken nuggets.

For the most part, when Ginger sees me coming closer, she slips under the couch or back into her sanctuary room. I assume this is because whenever I show up somewhere in the house, Janey and Karma are hot on my heels, because God forbid I do anything without the dogs’ supervision.

But late at night, when the rest of the house (especially the dogs) are asleep, we see each other as I step out into the darkness for a seltzer. The fridge light will illuminate her eyes and white tux accessories. Her preferred method to receive affection is the old “flop and retreat.” This is when a cat flops on the floor, showing you some or all of their fluffy tummy. Then they let you pet them for no more than five seconds before they get up, walk a few steps – just far enough to be inconvenient – before flopping again and demanding pets. And of course, I’m a sucker, so I crawl around the living room bending to her will until she gets tired of me, or until one of the dogs wakes up and realizes I’m not in bed and shuffles in all bleary-eyed.

One night last week, I was brushing my teeth when I heard a boring, normal sound that I heard almost every day for, oh, nine years. The slip-thump-skitter of a cat jumping off the table and running across the floor. It’s not a sound you’d ever think to miss, until you hear it unexpectedly for the first time in a while. And even though she is a very different cat, and not even mine, in that moment, I felt like my old friend Juno was back again.

Victoria Hugo-Vidal is a Maine millennial. She can be contacted at:
themainemillennial@gmail.com
Twitter: @mainemillennial

Copy the Story Link