Cats are like that, I say. My therapist looks confused: I thought we were talking about dating. I believed I had one the other day, I tell her. A date? A cat. She stuck her kitten face around the door of my conservatory. Just a furry cheek. A stray, or maybe a neighbour’s pet. Hello, she said, edging in. She stayed in her corner, soft eyed. The next day she brought me a mouse. Let’s dress it up like Leigh Bowery, she said. We could make it dance, I suggested. I like Liza Minnelli, she offered, shyly. I wondered whether they let cats into the theatre. I could imagine her beside me, licking her whiskers whenever she thought the number was good. Maybe, one day, I mused, I’d feed her vegan cat food and she’d sleep on the end of the bed. Each of us would learn to tolerate the dog’s snoring, because the patriarchy always wins in the end. The trouble is, I tell my therapist, I always forget the problem with cats. She looks frustrated. We were supposed to be discussing trust issues. You never own a cat, I say, as though I were spouting Socrates. I mean, I always worry about them scratching or something, but that’s not really the problem. I’d cope with that. Even the pulled threads. But the way a cat hurts you is worse. They make you want to love them, I proclaim. And then, just like that, they’re gone, disappeared, making pussycat eyes at someone else. Are we still talking about cats? My therapist is very patient. I thought we were talking about dating, I say.​

Clare M. Coombe (she/her) is a queer feminist writer of fiction and poetry, whose writing also explores living with an eating disorder and chronic illness. She lives in Kent, UK, with two cats, two rabbits, and a miniature dachshund called Gatsby whose anxiety is even worse than her own.
image: ed leszczynskl via unsplash