Cat Energy
My aversion to neediness
Everyone knows all the cool people are dog people.
Cat people are supposedly quiet, introverted, and often considered kind of weird (No one talks about “crazy dog ladies”, do they?). I learned a long time ago that, when asked which species I prefer, it was always cooler to say I am a dog person — or at the very least to claim to love both animals equally.
This is a lie. I am absolutely a cat person.
I have always loved dogs, but until recently I have been unable to directly compare the two species. I am allergic to dogs and have therefore never owned one. But when my partner and I moved in together three years ago, he came equipped with two kids and a dog. My bundle included three kids and two cats. Now we co-parent the whole crew — five kids, two cats, and the dog.
Kaby the Dog
Our dog’s name is Kaby, and I adore her. My step-son named her when he was barely old enough to talk. He wanted to name her “Baby”, but his baby brother was due any day and his parents convinced him to course-correct. Kaby is a beagle-basset mix (although we call her a “bagel”), and she is such a good girl. She is loving and well-behaved and great with the kids. She is beautiful; brown and white and sleek, with the softest head and smoothest ears. She is an absolute sweetheart. Sure, there is the occasional random poo in the house, or chewed up dirty tissues in the bathroom; but overall she is a 10/10 dog.
Our cats, on the other hand, are assholes.
Rex and Purrl
Rex is grey and fluffy. He is affectionately called Fatty. Purrl is sleek and black and known mostly as “Purrly Girly”. These two furry menaces do as they please. They scratch the furniture, they poo NEXT to their litter boxes, and Rex sneezes giant snot rockets all over the house. They steal socks from everyone’s drawers or hampers and drag them around until someone reclaims them.
Still, I prefer the cats.
When I return from a day full of needy teenagers to a home full of needy children, the literal last thing I want to deal with is a needy animal. As soon as I open the front door, Kaby is there. In her excitement she jumps on me and whimpers loudly, wanting to be noticed. She wants to go outside, she wants to be pet, she wants her belly rubbed. She follows me from room to room, eagerly lapping up any scrap of attention I toss her way.
Purrl and Rex wait for me near the bottom of the stairs inside the front door. They flick their tails and blink their eyes at me, then they run off to do who knows what. I don’t usually see them again until they begin to herd us towards their food bowls at six o’clock on the nose. They are glad I am home, but happier to return to their life of feline laziness and destruction.
Nap Energy
Last Sunday all seven of us were home. It was a stormy day, and Kaby is afraid of storms. She was needier than usual, trying to be as close to my partner and I as physically possible. I found myself retreating to the second floor — where she is not allowed — because her energy was too much for me. I took refuge on my bed, where I planned to take an afternoon nap.
I have rules about naps. Naps should not be taken under the covers of the bed, lest my body get confused and sleep too long. Naps are 15–30 minutes in length with 10–20 minutes of reading beforehand. Any longer and I wake up feeling as though someone crushed a Benadryl into my Fresca. Naps are taken ON TOP of the comforter, where I nestle in with my nap blanket (a giant, fluffy, Pendleton blanket that I drag up onto the bed and scrunch around me like a nest). I nap almost every day — and every time I do, Purrl naps with me.
Purrly likes to cuddle, but only on her terms. She does NOT like to be picked up. Each day, about five minutes after I snuggle into my nap blanket, she shows up. Usually it’s been hours since I’ve seen her, but she has nap-time radar. I feel her weight as she steps around me, and hear her purring gently as she paws at my blanket looking for a way in. I lift the edge up and she crawls under. She likes the spot in the crook of my knees or the hollow between my stomach and my thighs (I sleep curled up on my side). She’ll nose her way in, choose one of her spots, and settle. She purrs loudly — and sometimes makes biscuits against me until I push her paws off — until she falls into a deep sleep. I doze off with the warm weight of her against me, my energy level lowering itself to match hers.
THIS is my vibe.
Uncenter me, please
I saw a TikTok the other day about Sagittariuses. The creator claimed that a common Sagittarius trait is that we never want to be the most important thing in someone’s life. I doubt this is true for everyone born under the influence of the Archer — astrology can be a bit reductive — but this TikTok resonated with me immediately.
Anytime someone in my life makes me their number one priority, I find myself doing all that I can to avoid them. I surround myself with people who like me, but don’t necessarily need me. I am raising self-sufficient children, and I have chosen a partner who is very happily settled in his own life. Being someone’s most important thing feels like an immense amount of pressure, and I react to it very strongly.
No one who has ever placed me in the center of their world has stayed very long in mine.
Golden Retriever
I had my first official boyfriend when I was fifteen. His name was Will, and he was very sweet. We were very religious and innocent… I’m fairly certain he never even held my hand. I can’t remember how long we “dated”, but I remember exactly why I broke up with him.
His parents had taken us out — for ice cream, I think? — and afterward, we sat in the back of their van. He sweetly handed me a poem he had written for me. It was written on red paper that looked like a rose, and he had drawn lines on the paper first with a ruler so he would write neatly. As I think back about this now, my heart softens at the sweetness of his sentiment.
But back then I felt differently.
On the bench seat of the minivan, he watched as I read his poem. I pretended to love it — I wanted to protect his feelings — but inside, I couldn’t get away fast enough. It was as if the entire weight of his attention had shifted to rest solely on me. I felt as though he had thrown a comforter over me and pinned me inside. The air in front of my face was stale and hot. I don’t remember how the rest of the evening went, but I knew immediately that this boy was not for me. I didn’t break up with him that night, but it didn’t take me long. I couldn’t remember that poem without physically shuddering for years.
I have always needed room to breathe.
Dogs set their humans squarely in the center of their little doggy universe. To cats, we are peripheral at best. I suppose dog people may see this as a lack of love, but I would disagree. Cats love their owners as much as dogs do — they just love their freedom more.
I can relate.
I have spent my adult life jealously guarding my freedom, especially after recklessly sacrificing it in the name of love a few times. Now that I’m middle-aged, I’ve learned to have boundaries. I’m stingy with my freedom. It’s mine, after all, and I don’t want to share.
The cats seem to understand this. The dog does not.
To all you very cool dog people — no judgement. Dogs are great. If being greeted joyfully at the door when you get home is your jam, fantastic — you do you. I love my dog very much, but the level of attention she pays me is stifling. I’d rather be politely acknowledged, and then left to my own devices.
Unless, of course, it’s naptime.
BB Heilman is a writer, teacher, and mother. She writes in order to makes sense of life — particularly her own. She is currently building an empire of words — be sure to stay tuned for future projects.
