I’m definitely guilty of using the “pet dad” trope, and that’s because my cat RULES. She’s friendly, she’s low-maintenance, she’s a weighted blanket that gets me through winters. Her origin story would be cut from a movie script for being too unbelievably saccharine. My wife and I were at the shelter, not really vibing with any of the cats available to adopt. Right before we were about to leave, disheartened shells of once-hopeful pet owners, this kitten woke up, walked up to my wife, and literally tapped her on the shoulder and started nuzzling her. We were more lovestruck than Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black, and that dude was so lovestruck he got hit by two cars at once.
Universal Pictures
Moreover, adopting a cat felt like a big step towards “real” adulthood. My wife and I had been dating for roughly a year, and things were starting to move from “ain’t this a grand ol’ time” towards “golly gee wilkers maybe I want ya to be my steady girl forever.” Getting a cat—something we had to care for and be responsible for feeding—felt like a stepping stone towards bigger commitments. It felt like the beginning of building a life. Obviously, a pet doesn’t have to mean all that in and of itself, but we did get engaged a few months later. What do I know?
What It Is Now:
My wife had to carry, birth, and breastfeed our child. I have been literally kicked in the balls by baby feet every day for the last three years. But the household member who’s suffered the most from the arrival of the baby might be the cat. Poor girl just cannot get used to the kid, always running away and hiding whenever he notices her. We have our living room—the main place the toddler plays—blocked by a baby gate. Where’s the cat most of the day? Lounging unseen in any room that’s not that one. Then, as soon as the kid is in bed, she skulks out to sit on the couch with us like she’s a prisoner and this is her time in the yard.