A few months ago, in the midst of a difficult breakup, I did what any emotionally stable, newly single girl in my situation normally does: I marched over to the animal shelter and adopted a cat. I could no longer avoid the truth: I was to become, at some point or another, a crazy cat lady. (I just didn’t think it would happen this early in my 20s.)
Margot was only two months old when I adopted her, and she had the energy of a freshly awoken three-year-old on espresso.She would chase her own shadow around the apartment, pounce on our ankles and do laps around the living room, occasionally jumping on our shoulders to observe the room from our level.It felt almost cruel keeping her cooped up in my tiny San Francisco apartment, when she so clearly wanted to explore the grand outdoors. So I threw dignity out the window, got Margot a cat leash and opened her eyes to the world beyond the door — the Richmond District.
Getting Margot out the door felt like a joke. I couldn’t stop laughing while Margot figured out how to walk in her harness. At first, she tried crawling across the floor like a broken slinky with the harness attached to her. She then chose to simply lie on the ground, seemingly defeated by this confusing, restricting force. Eventually, I picked her up and carried her down the steps to the driveway, where I propped her up and tried luring her to walk with her favorite treats.
I imagined that this would be something Margot and I would laugh about later on, that her absolute fear would diminish and become a thing of the past. I was snapping pictures of her poor, scared (but oh so funny) face, and was deep into the planning of a caption for an Instagram post. Unfortunately, my dream was short lived.
That’s because we could barely make it down the driveway. Margot was simply not having any of it. She tried to claw, hiss and sneak her way out of the walk before we got to the sidewalk. At the sound of a car passing, she would scurry her way up my body, attempting to “hide” out on my shoulders. In a few, spare calm moments, she would find any patch of trash or dirty leaves to roll in, coating her beautiful black hair with San Francisco sidewalk grime.
My neighbor, who was out walking his enthusiastic puppy, made a pit stop on his walk to say hello and asked me what species Margot was.
“I’ve never seen a cat on a leash before,” he remarked with a chuckle, while Margot timidly sniffed her new canine acquaintance. “Me either,” I responded, protectively yanking my kitten away from the man’s laughing visage like a mother guarding her daughter from the mean girls on the playground. Not today, sir!
Soon after, a stressed-out mother ran by, chasing her children. As they passed, I held the frightened Margot in my arms while she stared up at the sky with her mouth open. One of the little boys came up and yelled, “KITTY!!” His mother shooed him away from me and Margot — apparently, she didn’t want her child running up to a strange lady staring at the sky with her cat.
The awkward interactions continued, strangers bombarding me with questions as to why, exactly, I was taking my cat on a walk. After a few more such interactions, Margot looked as tired as I was. Honestly, I could handle the scratches, bite marks and guilt of traumatizing my cat, but not the weird looks that passers-by threw our way. I felt like an outcast, a lesser breed than the mighty dog walkers, the kings of the sidewalk. We returned home exhausted, battered and defeated.
So maybe my cat wasn’t meant to be walked after all. Still, it seems to work for some. There are testimonials from cat walkers who swear by it. But not my Margot — she’s a bit too spastic for the leash lifestyle. She’s a wild cat at heart and does much better with exploring the shrubbery in my backyard — and sometimes my neighbors’ — leash-free.
