November 2007

 November, 2007. 


My girlfriend Angela and I live together in Cambridge, Massachusetts. I worked in politics, managing a City Council campaign. She was temping in a corporate office, biding time until medical school. 


The week before, my candidate was elected in a surprising victory. For a few days, I reveled in this achievement, in the congratulations and the media buzz. But by the end of the next week, I realized a few (admittedly, obvious) things. One, I personally had not been elected to the City Council, my boss had. Two, I was unemployed and lacking clear job prospects in Cambridge. 


I began discussing plans to go home to Texas for the upcoming holidays. Angela mused that she would be lonely when I was away.


“Maybe we should get a cat,” she said. 


Of course I wanted a cat. I’ve loved cats my whole life. I was raised by a veritable cat lady. At our peak, my family had ten domestic cats, plus an ever-evolving herd of outside cats that my mom fed each day. When I recall their names, I think of eras of my childhood. 


The elementary school period: Mikey, Smokey, Midnight, Dorito (I named her myself because I thought she looked like a Dorito chip; in fairness, I was seven), Keen Tut (I named her myself for reasons unknown, because I was seven). 


The adolescent period: Socks, Simon, Boots, Puddin, Missy. 


The high school age: Zelda, Daisy, Buster, Grace, Marley, Rocky. 


I am sure the above list is incomplete. Apologies to the felines of my past that I omitted. 


Getting a cat with my girlfriend, though, was more than just a cat. She would be our cat. Were we ready to have an our cat? A living thing that we both took care of? There are implications to being a couple that has a cat. 



Credit to Angela: she knew my weakness. I worried about our readiness to be joint cat owners, but, c’mon, a cat. I missed waking up to their faces, lounging with them. I love the vibe they engender in a home. Of relaxation, belonging, meaning. And I love them.


“Okay,” I said, “let’s get a cat.”


Angela began to scour Craigslist. I’m not sure if she looked at other sites; in 2007, I assume the options were more limited than what we have today. But Craigslist had plenty of options. She showed me a few. What can you say when looking at an adoptable cat other than: “Awwww.” 


I said “awwww” a whole bunch of times. 


On this particular day, in mid-November of 2007, she showed me a cat in East Boston named Lola. 


“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” Angela said. 


I didn’t say “awwww.” I don’t think I said anything at all. I just looked at her. Couldn’t look away. 


“What do you think?”


“She’s really cute,” I said. 


“Do you want to see her this weekend?”

“Okay.”


We drove to East Boston and entered the apartment of Lola. I guess it would be more precise to call it Amy’s apartment. We’d never met Amy before, and I have not seen her since, though we do follow each other on social media. I’m guessing she follows me solely for the cat pics. 


Amy’s apartment was a standard Boston rental, the kind of place twentysomethings live because they must live somewhere. Unlike most Boston apartments, it had the feel of a small zoo. Multiple cats greeted us at the door. Plus a chinchilla and lord knows what else. Clearly this woman was an animal lover. 


Lola was small and skittish. We would later learn that she is slow to trust strangers. But she did emerge, flicking around the living room. She was tiny, much smaller than she appeared in pictures, a blur of kitten energy and passion. 



Amy assured us that she was a cuddler and very sweet.


“I have an older cat named Duncan who seems stressed by the presence of multiple animals in the house,” she said. “I think Lola will do better in a different environment.”


Amy clearly had a passion for animals, and I did not doubt the sincerity of this sentiment. How else can one live in an apartment this size with this many animals? 


I wish I could say I bonded with Julie at first sight in Amy’s apartment, but I didn’t. She was cute. There was a magic to her, a presence, a mystery. 


“We’d love to have her,” I said. 


“There is another couple I am considering,” Amy said, “but I really like you guys, and I will let you know soon.”


And we were in a silent competition now, for a four-pound skittish black-and-white kitten. 


But the competition did not last long. The next day, Amy called and said Lola was ours. Angela went to East Boston to pick here up. (It’s so funny to think this today, given that for years, I’ve been the one who takes Julie anywhere. Even when driving a moving van, Julie would be in the front seat with me while Angela took the dog in the other car.)


And when I came home from work that night, we were a couple with a cat. 


She would not be a Lola for long. 

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