Amy F. Quincy Author/Freelance Writer

They say you don’t get the cat you want, but the cat you need. Well, I’ve really only heard Cesar Milan say that about dogs, but it probably applies to cats too. And maybe romantic partners, children, or parents. Basically, anyone who’s made your life at times…um – shall we say…challenging. And I’m not sure who they are, but I can assure you it wasn’t the people at the Humane Society, or the friends that went with me to adopt him, nor even the cat himself. Everyone assured me that he was the cat I wanted. And for his part, he appeared calm and cuddly, purring as I held him. A real lap cat. It was all an act.

Not that Finnegan, eight months old now, doesn’t love my lap. He does. But only as a mode of transportation or a brief landing spot that propels him to even greater heights or more interesting locations. Whereas I see myself in my wheelchair as having a disability, Finn sees his person as special and unique. Regular cats have regular laps in which to sit. Finn has a magical lap that moves. He rides around like an Egyptian pharaoh lounging on his platform, while his lowly servants parade him through the streets of his adoring subjects. It goes without saying that I’m a lowly servant in this scenario.

When I’m not busy playing footman, I assume the role of prey. Finn can go from zero to attack in five seconds flat. At first, I was careful to look for the warning signs. Then I realized, there are no warning signs. He likes to approach soundlessly, like a stealth ninja, as I watch television, blissfully unaware on the sofa. Then, in a quick hit and run, he delivers a piercing bite to my ankle before slipping out of sight down the hall. He’s got it down to one fluid offensive move. But I’ve been working on my defense, too. I wear leggings, socks and long sleeves, wrapping myself up in a blanket to cover the accidental sliver of exposed skin. Then I lay there like a sweaty burrito, trying not to make an unnecessary motion or enticing twitch.

Several times, on my lap, he’s turned and sunk two fanged teeth into my boob. When I push him to the floor, in pain and anger, he plays it to the hilt, falling over in dramatic fashion and looking at me from the floor with a kind of hurt shock. He reminds me of one ex-boyfriend, I’m embarrassed to say, that I lightly pushed, during a fight in the garage over his being drunk. In his inebriation, and perhaps with his own flair for the dramatic, he stumbled backward, tripping over various supplies and yard tools along the way until finally landing a good fifteen feet away, as if I’d shoved him with all my might. He looked at me then just as Finn does now. With that same surprise, that feigned “how could you?” look. Unfortunately, the boyfriend’s descent ended with an unceremonious thud as he fell butt-first into the recycling bin, his arms and legs dangling out among the displaced soda and beer cans. His guilt trip might have worked if it hadn’t been so funny.

But It works with Finn. I’m immediately filled with regret when he hits the floor. Like a battered woman, I pull down my sleeves to cover the marks and make excuses for him. ““I provoked him,” or, “He didn’t mean it.” Mostly, he doesn’t bite hard. “They’re just love bites,” I tell friends. Yeah, toxic love maybe.

These nips seem designed to get my attention. As does his maneuver of running to get in front of me and then flopping to the floor in front of my wheelchair. In a protesting move leftover from the 60s, he doesn’t get up until the tires of my vehicle slowly start to nudge his body. His body goes limp when arrested. It’s our Mexican standoff.

Still, I’m convinced it’s not his fault. In fact, having just finished watching the documentary Wildcat! and doing a bit of research on my own, I think I may have some kind of wild hybrid mix on my hands, like a Bengal or an “Ocicat.” For example, Finn always carries things with his mouth and scratches all around his food and litter every night, “covering his tracks” or any scent of himself and “burying his kill,” lest Frankie and I decide to go on the hunt. He’s extremely thorough, and like any self-respecting obsessive-compulsive, he’s not satisfied until he’s scratched all his food right out of the bowl, dug in his box for a good 15 minutes, flinging litter everywhere and spilled his water into a big puddle on the hardwood floor. Other traits fit the bill, too. Like the way he walks (like a model on the catwalk,) bravely greets strangers at the door, or has markings that look increasingly like spots as he matures. And hey, if some mad scientist has bred wild instinct into him, then who am I to punish him? He can’t help it, right?

Besides, I’ve tried everything. Yelling, spanking, a spray bottle. Yelling is pointless and spanking only escalates a conflict I can’t win. Only water seems to deter him, but even it’s losing its initial power. Lately, he seems not to mind getting wet (another wild characteristic). I had some brief success with making a high-pitched noise, like a cry, something I read somewhere that mother cats will do to admonish their offspring. To let them know that something they did in play was actually too rough. I was squealing like a dolphin all the time until I realized that concerned neighbors might come to my aid or call the police over my loud screams.

Frankie also gets frustrated. Finnegan bites him too, yet only seems to connect with a mouthful of fur. Frankie shuts him down real quick with a fast “grark,” (my word for a combined growl and bark). They get along for the most part. Or more accurately, Finn worships his big brother, following him everywhere. Frankie just tolerates his annoying sibling. Most of the time though, I catch Frankie looking at me, after I’ve made some weak attempt at discipline as if to say, What were you thinking? I have no idea, Frankie. Not a clue.

This same thought has been voiced by friends or family. “As if your life weren’t challenging enough,” they say. I know what I wanted, but no inkling of what it is I needed. I try to think of him as my special needs child. Sure, it’s tough and more work and not what I would have picked for myself if I had a crystal ball. But, it’s the luck of the draw and you get what you get. I picked him.

One friend said recently, “You know, it’s not too late to give him back. He’s still young.” Not only do I not feel I made a lifelong commitment, but let me tell you something — it’s too late. I already love him. So, he’s not the perfect cat for me. And yes, there’s a little dysfunction to my family. But we’re just that. A family.

October 25, 2022

I was not getting a kitten. Remember Rikki-Tikki-Tavi? Something tiny, fast and mongoose-like darting under my wheels or out the door? No, thank you. That’s the last thing I needed. I had planned all along to get a teenager or young adult cat, six months to a year or two old. With an older cat, you kind of know what you’re getting. Maybe the shelter knows the cat’s history or the foster home can provide details about its’ personality. A kitten, on the other hand, is a total crap shoot.

I remember my most recent cat, Bella, was perfect for me. She was sweet, slow and a little tubby. A Ragdoll mix, she was a cat that either couldn’t or wouldn’t jump. She and Frankie would blissfully lay on the dappled sunlit balcony for hours. They were happy if a little sloth-like, so I, in turn, was happy and never worried about them. I could go about my business inside, with the balcony door open, and they would come and go as they pleased.

Meet Finnegan. A scrawny, kind of gangly-looking, 12-week-old kitten, who lured me in under what can only be described as false pretenses. Part of the appeal was his extra toes. Six on the front paws, five on the back. It looks like he’s wearing big catcher’s mitts. A Hemingway, or polydactyl cat, he’s called. The romantic idealist in me couldn’t resist. A writer cat for a writer! How serendipitous! I read about them much later. Polydactyl cats are particularly good athletes: fast, agile and great jumpers. Not exactly perfect for me.

Finn has two modes of operation. On, which is (way on ) and chill mode. On chill, he appears perfectly normal and affectionate, like a rather low energy, lap cat. Guess which show he put on for me on adoption day? In fact, as he fell asleep, purring in my lap amid all the barking dogs and clamor of families out looking for a new pet, my girlfriend said, “Wow, I hope he’s not too chill.” Ha! She needn’t have worried. Halfway home someone flipped his switch and he was struggling to get out of his cardboard carrier and look around.

At home, confident and fearless, he ran out to meet Frankie, and immediately rewarded Frankie’s curiosity with a hiss and a swipe. We spent the next half hour trying to hold on to him and keep him out of trouble, which is something like trying to hold onto a melting ice cube while wearing latex gloves. He wriggled and explored and basically got into everything. He made huge leaps, always trying to reach higher places. He scampered along the windowsill, leaping over all the miniature potted succulents I have there, without breaking, or even moving a single one. I was hit with a sunken feeling. I can never let him out on the balcony.

Then, boom! The switch flips and he hits a wall. I thank God for these down times. Like a new mother who’s supposed to nap when her baby is napping, I try to enjoy the balcony with my “firstborn” during this reprieve. Before Finn came along, Frankie and I had just settled into a new routine. He would wait at the balcony door in the morning, while I made my breakfast and then, coffee in hand, we’d proceed outside together. Those days are gone. I’m reminded of a girlfriend, who after the birth of her first child and struggling with postpartum, admitted to hiding out in the closet with her cat, crying, “Why couldn’t I have been happy with just you?” Indeed.

Why couldn’t I have been happy with just Frankie? Well, I love Frankie, but in the three years without Bella, our family seemed incomplete, not really a family at all. Just a woman and her dog. Somewhere along the line, I’ve gotten it into my brain that three make a family. Three. That’s the magic number. Hogwash I’m sure, but that’s what was going on in my head. That’s the answer to my father’s question, “What were you thinking?”

My mother warned me too. Keeping pets can be challenging for anyone, let alone someone in a wheelchair. I’m not like all your friends posting their perfect pictures on Facebook. I’m not going to sugarcoat it for you. See Exhibit A above. And yes, that’s cat poo on the walls. “Are you sure you want to deal with all that extra work?” my mom asked. This is rich coming from her since she’s the one who brought Frankie home as a puppy, despite all my chiding her that puppies are like newborns as far as work is concerned.

What with the extra work, the lack of lap cat cuddling and the destruction of anything nice I brought into the house, I struggled with my own postpartum depression. I’d lie in bed awake with Frankie, listening to Finn dart around the living room, busy defeating imaginary prey and not sleeping with us. I stayed up late, researching every way imaginable to kitten-proof a balcony. I bought balcony netting, invisible screen mesh and anti-bird spikes to keep him off the railing, but in the end, it looks like I’m living in a giant chicken coop. I’ve resigned to keeping him inside until he gets bigger.

Until then, I’ve purchased so many spray bottles I should’ve had stock in them. You know how Amazon makes you buy the big multi-packs? You can’t buy just one. That would be too simple. I now have eight spray bottles, in various pretty colors, positioned around the apartment. And I have one outside the door where regular visitors can arm themselves before coming in. It’s like a big game of paintball, I realized, as my friend Pauline headed to the door on her way out and looked back nervously. I grabbed a blue spray bottle and shouted, “Go quick! I’ll cover you!”

Luckily, Finn detests being sprayed. Unlike Frankie, who loves game time with the mini-water hose, a well-timed shot to the face will deter Finn from just about anything. He has learned to stop whatever he’s doing and run at just the sight of it. The other day, I was watching a documentary on Netflix about the mindset of cats. They were arguing against using such negative training tools. They suggested distracting your cat from the unwanted behavior by talking nicely and offering a toy or treat. Yeah, right. So when Finn jumps on the counter I’m supposed to say, “Pardon me, sweet kitty, but won’t you come over here instead and get this nice tuna?” Nonsense.

Fortunately, just as a girlfriend predicted, the postpartum is passing. It must be, because when another friend, listening to my woes, asked, “So are you going to keep him?” I gasped in response, “Of course, I’m keeping him!”

He’s my cat. For better or worse. To my mind, there is no other option. I wanted a family of three and I picked him. This is where faith comes in a little bit. There must have been a reason I went straight to him at the shelter and didn’t look around more. I’m reminded of that Garth Brooks song, “Unanswered Prayers.” So, I didn’t get exactly the cat I wanted. More will be revealed in time. At least that’s what I’m counting on. Heck, for the first two years of Frankie’s life, during which time he was living with my mother, she worried about what would happen to him if she died. “Don’t worry,” I said, not wanting a dog, “I’ll find him, a good home.” Can you imagine? Anyone who knows me knows how attached I am to Frankie. I would never say that now. Sure, the house is all shut up and I can’t enjoy the balcony, but maybe an older cat wouldn’t have accepted Frankie as well.

And they are getting along. Well, as well as can be expected of brothers, with the occasional gripe, always from Frankie, not wanting to be bothered.

And he will get bigger and calm down. Until then, Frankie and I will be enjoying the breeze through enough mesh and spikes we look like prisoners behind the barbed wire of a high-security prison. Actually, I don’t want to jinx it, but the past few days, when I’m at my desk and he’s not bouncing off the walls, Finn has started curling up with me. A writer cat for a writer. Just what I’ve always wanted.