Uncle.

My time as a cat-tourist has come to an end. I’m a permanent resident. A card-carrying cat dad. Her name is Reno. I got her when she’s was 11 weeks old. She’ll be six months on the 25th. 

This post actually was interrupted because Reno wanted to play. And who am I to deny her? 

She is my first animal as an adult. My previous role at work had me traveling constantly and I realized I’d never be able to anchor myself to the universe as a corporate vagabond. So I transferred to another department and now I send emails all day from a standing desk. The day I finished my last work trip, I brought her home. Gazing at her still-blue eyes, it dawned on me that I could have her when I turn sixty.

I’ve wanted an animal for most of my adult life. I used to say I didn’t have one because it would be unfair to them given my travel schedule. I was never home. A half truth. The idea of being tied to something for the next twenty years terrified me. Looking back, I manufactured my life to avoid permanence. Always moving. Never still.

My Dad had wanted a dog for the last decade of his life and never pulled the trigger. He would lament to me how empty the house was and how all he wanted was a pup. He kept saying it was too late. After the series of heartbreaks I’ve had with my neighborhood cats, I knew I couldn’t go on like this anymore. Loving something part-time is not for me. One toe in is a recipe for heartbreak. 

It’s been the best decision I’ve made in a long time. It’s embarrassing to be proud of yourself for getting a cat. But, in these bones, it means a lot. 

Learning a lot about myself. Loving her little face. Raising her right. One step closer to not becoming my father.