I was surprised and delighted to be asked to cat sit for the week over the holidays. Being in charge of two felines â two portly black and white kitties named âChickenâ and âWafflesâ â sounded like fun to me. I accepted the gig, and promptly received an email detailing their requirements for the week. Unsurprisingly, they required food, water, and clean litter boxes.
Cats are so much easier than dogs, and Chicken and Waffles were no exception. They would meet me each day at the door by meowing and walking purposefully toward their food bowls, where they would sit and stare meaningfully from the bowl, to me, then back to the bowl again. Subtlety was not their strong suit. I would blather on to them about my day, asking them serious questions about current events. They responded by rubbing against my legs and flopping on their sides, expecting belly rubs. After they ate their paté, we retired to the living room to play with a few toys. Chicken would humor me by chasing a ribbon or pouncing on a toy, but Waffles found me boring, forcing me to do silly antics with toys to get her to notice me at all. But I was all they had, so they accepted me for the week. Being the Food Lady earned me a certain level of respect.
I expected to finish out the week wishing I had cats of my own. But what I didnât expect was the wistfulness I felt about the apartment. Chicken and Waffles and their owner live in a modest 1-bedroom apartment, overlooking a courtyard from a sunny second-floor window.
I admit it ââ for seven days, I walked into that apartment as if it were my own, playing the role of single woman and cat owner, if only for that week. In my 20s, I never had a cool studio apartment in the city like many of my friends. So I imagined what my own bachelorette pad wouldâve looked like: Would it be mostly safe, neutral tones, or would the younger, single version of myself choose a daring, colorful palette, with vibrant, overstuffed pillows and velvety throw blankets?
Yes, a red couch, or some brightly colored cast-off that Iâd pick up for a good price at a funky second-hand store in the city would suit me in my own little apartment. My dishes would be eclectic and mismatched, and most of my meals would happen on the couch, probably watching a movie with the kitties. Iâd eat a lot of ramen, but on special occasions, Iâd make an entire meal that represented all the food groups. Maybe Iâd invite friends over, and they would be jealous of my apartment.
Most nights, I would probably fall asleep on the couch, perhaps waking up at 3:30 a.m. to trudge bleary-eyed to my bed. Chicken and Waffles would follow me, curling up beside me as I settled in for the remainder of the night, until I had to wake up for my part-time job working at a cute little bookstore.
Ahhh, regret can be a risky business. Thereâs no changing the past, so whatâs the point of wishing?
But by the time I fed the cats, cleaned their boxes, and played a bit on the floor of my imaginary apartment with them, my thoughts turned to my actual home. The truth was, I couldnât wait to get there. I love the feeling of coming home to a house glowing with lamplight with people already inside. My daughter would be sitting at the table, her hair in a messy bun, twisting her mouth in that thoughtful way when doing homework. My husband would be in the kitchen, starting dinner. My dog would rush at me as though I was returning from a month-long journey.
In real life, my couch is quite sensible in a neutral tone. Our dishes match: we chose a practical set of white china thatâs dishwasher-proof. We sometimes eat dinner on the couch, but most of the time we light a candle and sit together at the table and ask each other, âWhat was the best part of your day?â We laugh, unless someone needs to vent, in which case we all feign indignant anger in solidarity.
Those sweet little kitties, Chicken and Waffles, gave me a sample of another existence for a week, where I got to try on a different life to see how it fit. But in the end, it was my own life that I wanted: my funny family and over-enthusiastic dog. The chaos of sharing a bathroom with a teen daughter. The dirty dishes, the mortgage, and the pile of laundry, none of which ever seem to shrink. If things had been different, and I had my colorful little studio apartment in the city with two kitties and bowls of ramen in front of the TV, I hope I still wouldâve ended up here. Itâs good for me.
