I’m the baby of the family and pretty much acted like one for a long time. (Still do, kinda?, maybe?) But when I was 22, my older sister asked if I would babysit her cat while she went on a trip. She didn’t have any kids—Willie was her baby—and I wanted to prove that I was growing up, that I was responsible, so I agreed.
Wa lived in Boston, I in New York. She brought the cat down to me, told me how to feed him and clean the litter box, and left on her trip.
I tried to snuggle him posthaste—that’s something you’re supposed to do when you’re taking care of a thing, right?—but Willie was a real scaredy-cat. He wouldn’t let me get close to him at all. So that first day, I did what I could: carefully measured his food, put out fresh water, like, five times, scooped every turd practically as soon as it hit the litter. After I while, I gave up on trying to lurve on him. I showered, waxed my legs, and got my fancy black pants on, and I went out with my friends for the night, leaving him in the apartment by himself.
I ended up staying out all night, because that’s something I did when I was 22, and when I stumbled back into the apartment the next morning, I couldn’t find Willie anywhere. He wasn’t in my room, he wasn’t in the living room, he was nowhere, and I was like, OHHHH EFFFFFFFFF.
I LOST MY SISTER’S CAT.
THE FIRST DAY.
I was panicked. I checked every closet, everywhere, and I was about to call my sister and tell her I was the worst, most irresponsible person ever, but something made me get down on my hands and knees and looked under the bed. Back in the very corner, I saw two gleaming eyes, and I was awash with relief.
I hadn’t killed or lost the cat, and—the best part—no one was the wiser. No one had to know I was the most irresponsible person ever.
Problem is, he wouldn’t come out. I tried everything. I called him. I made a trail of treats. I ignored him. He would not come out. So finally I got the broom, and I was like, this little bastard’s gonna come out and I’ma snuggle him.
I swept back with the broom, and sure enough—he shot out from under the bed. Immediately I saw that something was wrong, that he was walking funny. Like, step-step-step-shake, step-step-step-shake.
Every time I got close to him, though, he ran away so I couldn’t figure out why he jitterbugging. Eventually I trapped him in my tiny bathroom, and when I did, I saw that he must’ve jumped up onto my dresser, where in my preparations for going out, I had left one of the wax strips I was using for my legs. And now, one of those was strips was stuck to his back leg. His whole back leg.
Now, how do you get a wax strip off a cat’s leg? It occurred to me to pull it off like I pulled them off my own legs, until I realized that I would probably pull his leg at least out of the socket, if not completely off his body. That would be hard to explain to Wa.
Next, I thought about some sort of solvent but figured anything strong enough to get the wax off would probably dissolve his hair. And maybe his skin?
So I ran to the kitchen and got a pair of scissors, then sprinted back into the bathroom. Willie was trying to be everywhere but near me, but there wasn’t a whole lot of room to roam, so I managed to catch him and pin him down, squirming and caterwauling. I picked up a corner of the wax strip very gently and snipped the hair underneath, then I pulled back a tiny bit more and snipped again. And working this way for six years, or maybe it was eight minutes, whatever—Willie’s catatonic at this point—I managed to get the wax strip all the way off. I opened the bathroom door, and he bolted out.
WHEW, no harm, no foul—maybe I still didn’t even have to tell my sister what happened.
Then I looked down at my pants, which were no longer black.
They were orange. I was wearing orange cat fur pants. Willie had completely molted, except of course for the leg that I had trimmed the wax strip off, which looked like it had been groomed with an old lawn mower.
There was no way I could get around telling my sister what happened.
BUT! I must’ve done something right between then and now because I’m in my sister’s will as the guardian of her three kids, should something happen to her and her husband.
And god forbid it did, but now at least I know to keep the wax strips away from the children.
See? I’m responsible.