A friend asked me awhile back when my cat would be the subject of an essay. That day has come.
I have the good fortune of caring for a handsome tuxedo cat I named Stanley. He’s 3 years old and I adopted him in September of 2022. I named him Stanley because as a tuxedo cat, he was in need of a dignified, genteel name. He has big yellow eyes and a white spot on the right side of his fuzzy little mouth. He has a black spot in his chest that looks like a proper bow tie, and all four of his paws are white like spats.
Cat person was one of my earliest discernible identities. I like their lithe nimbleness, their small, soft bodies. “Meow” appealed to me more than “woof.” My very first best friend was a dog person, so I felt like my feline affinity balanced us out. Honestly, I was a little scared of dogs. I remember standing on a park bench to get out of a dog’s reach. Dogs galumph and bound and have a distinct smell and hot breath. Cats are dainty, odorless, curious without being intrusive.
At least, that’s been my experience with cats thus far. I got my first cat when I was 9 years old. She was a pretty calico with green eyes. I dubbed her Cuddles, which at the time I thought was kind of a dumb name but I couldn’t think of anything else. She didn’t live up to her name. Skittish and panicky, she ran at most sounds at the sight of new people. Some of my friends took to terrorizing her. One friend ominously referred to her as “it.” Cuddles lived to be almost 18, seeing me through many firsts and milestones.
Stanley is more amicable than Cuddles. He’ll come out at parties and casual hangs. When he’s in his element, he flops on his side on the blue rug in the living room. An elite few have gained the privilege of rubbing his white tummy. His favorite thing is mealtime, and his second favorite thing is plastic. Crinkling plastic gets his attention immediately. When I have snacks at my desk, he’ll sniff the snack but chew the plastic bag.
Adopting Stan has enriched my life beyond measure. True, it’s more difficult to make weekend plans or to travel, but I never come home to an empty apartment. Stan comes trotting to greet me if he’s not already at the door when I arrive. I’m bewitched all over again when he jumps up on the arm of my chair while I work at my desk, or on the back of my comfy chair while I’m reading, or when he sort of swan dives onto the carpet with a mrrrow to expose his tummy, his paws poised up by his chin. I even commissioned my mom to write an original song about Stanley.
An incomplete list of nicknames for Stanley: Stan, Bobo, Bonobo, Bobini, Bobinsky, Noobert, Noo, Tan, Mitterbean.
He’s a gentleman and a scholar. A loaf and a longboi. A perpetual baby.