Recently, I’ve been wanting a cat. This is not new — I always want a cat, or three. It’s shocking, really, that I haven’t buckled and adopted one after more than two and a half years in Austin. (Of course, my apartment-mate B. got a kitten five months before she got her master’s and left, and R. has a wonderful, insane, hefty tabby, and then there were the three feral kittens I rescued and fostered while sharing a house with R.; but none of them were mine.) I stop and pet them whenever I can, and T. says, half-jokingly, that my superpower is seeing cats. I find them everywhere.
This is not the time to get a pet. We’re planning to move again this summer, and I may have to go to Oregon for a while at some point to help out, and who knows what emigrations may come, post-doctorate? Nonetheless: I want a cat.
So it was surprising, and pleasant, that the sweet silent little black cat who lives in the apartment across the parking lot — this is west campus; there is no other way to express proximal distance between buildings — decided to break into our apartment yesterday. She’s been friendly before, and it was cold out, but not that cold. I think she was just curious — and when the landlord showed up with the plumber to fix our hot water (sigh), she ran up the stairs ahead of them and bolted right in. I let her do that curious low creeping walk around the apartment for a little while, then took her out to the landing and held her on my lap. She purred a little, and twitched her tail, and it’s silly how happy I was then, sitting on our stairs with a borrowed cat on my lap, cold, thinking about nothing.