A sign in the parking lot of the animal shelter read, "Heat Kills. Don't Leave Your Pets and Kids in the Car." As I pulled in, a cluster of children and their mother piled out the front door with a brown dog. They were all beaming, including the dog.
Numbly, I opened the car door and unloaded the pet carrier and its problematic content. Once inside, I stood in line until a woman called me to the counter. When she found out I wanted to surrender my cat, she didn't lament or lecture me. She simply told me the shelter was full. There was a waiting list. "We'll call you," she said.
I went home deflated. Released from the carrier, the cat darted out, tail up, confident as ever. Looking disdainful, she disappeared into the yard and we resumed our hostilities.
Two months earlier things were different. Back then, I virtually radiated motherhood, which was peculiar because I'd never before felt nor desired the role of mother—nor any kind of caregiver responsibility.
As a child, I despised dolls. As a teenager, I hated babysitting. As a corporate professional, I avoided company picnics because so many children were there. The responsibility for something smaller than me made my toes curl.
Yet there I was, days from my twenty-sixth birthday and gaga. My new euphoria occurred in the wake of a strange dream involving a newborn who required breastfeeding.
My mom gleefully explained that my mothering instinct was kicking in: the biological clock. I couldn't believe it.
Nor could I escape it. I began to seek out children. I smiled at babies. I took interest in women pushing their toddlers in strollers in the park. I studied the art of caring. Even though the fuzzy feeling persisted, my fianc and I agreed we weren't ready for a real child. That's right, my rational mind declared, not ready.
We decided on the next best thing: a cat. I liked cats. They're clean and easy to care for. I had several growing up and they always liked me better than my younger brother. With a cat, I could dabble in the mom thing. I bought toys, chose a spot for the litter box and selected a veterinarian.
In a cloud of magnanimity, I went to the animal shelter. There, in rows of cages with skinny skittery cats, was a standout. She filled the cage with her fluff and weight, which was a funny thing for a rescued animal. She must have done well for herself on the street.
In the private visiting room, the cat was frantic to please, rubbing across my legs. She talked a blue streak with her loud plaintive cries. I was charmed. I adopted her right then and there and named her Maya.
Maya—fat and dark with a voice like a caffeine jolt.
That first night we were anxious mother and infant, up all night with crying and consoling, obsessive watching and hourly feeding—which left us both ragged in the morning.
Over the next few weeks, I settled into my mama role. I marveled at Maya's brassy attitude, cooed over her healthy appetite and admired her lusty voice.
I gushed over her nightly as she slept on my big down comforter, dead center.
But soon, my adoration turned to dismay. My comforter grew a black coat of its own and I spent the better part of each evening stripping hair off with masking tape. Then came the hairballs, dark gray masses in pools of vomit—everywhere. When I gave her hairball medicine, she writhed, hissing. When I tried to brush her, she growled low in her throat and clawed me. For relief, I let her outside where she accumulated a dazzling array of burs and prickers, which, in turn, ended up on chairs, couches and, of course, big down comforters.
Then one day she was everywhere, everywhere I wanted to be—on my bed, in my favorite chair, sprawled in the hallway as I tried to pass through, staring at me with her insolent and imperious gaze.
A good mother would have overlooked the flaws. For me, the vestiges of kindness disintegrated. Seeing her on the bed, I said, "Off," and gestured. She didn't budge. I pushed her off. She jumped back up. I pushed her off again. Up she came, curling confidently at the foot of the bed. I picked her up and tossed her into the living room, slamming the door.
MY ANIMOSITY SPREAD LIKE POISON.My animosity spread like poison. I chased her from resting spot to resting spot until she could only find refuge on an ugly striped chair I seldom used. I tossed her outside for long periods of time and occasionally left her there overnight. I became indifferent to her food supply, leaving the responsibility to my fianc. Her fur became matted and wooly. When she came into the room, I hissed.
I decided I had to get rid of her.
I went round and round with myself, trying to rationalize my decision. Maya needed a person with plenty of time to warm to her quirks: Someone like an unsuspecting old lady. When I carefully laid out the argument to a friend, she chided, "Maya's like a child. You can't return your child!"
But I was miserable. I hated the cat for making me miserable and for showing me that, when the time came, I might not have what it takes to be a good mother.
There lay the chilling truth: I failed at being mom when being mom was relatively easy. I couldn't love her unconditionally. I felt guilty.
When the shelter finally called, I made the required appointment to surrender Maya. I felt relieved.
I stepped through the shelter door a second time hefting the carrier. There was a young woman crying at the counter. She was in college, she said, waitressing to pay her way, and she couldn't afford to keep the abandoned kittens she'd found. The staffers hugged her and gave her tissues. "This is the best place you could have brought them," they said. The young woman peeled out fifteen ones to give for a donation.
Across the counter, posters on the wall read: "Dogs, Friends for Life" and "If You Move, Take Them With You" and "Abandonment is a Crime."
As I waited I caught snippets of conversation: "Can you imagine leaving a cat in a garbage can? Terrible."
When it was my turn, the woman at the counter ushered me through the paperwork process. I tried to be generous when it came to the questionnaire that described Maya as a pet. I marked the boxes that said "friendly" and "affectionate." I wanted her to have a better home than mine.
They took the carrier through a door in the back and returned it empty. The woman told me sternly that I should call to check on Maya in a week or so. I wanted to verify the shelter was no-kill, but I couldn't bring myself to ask.
Then I was free to go. As I walked out, two questions nagged at me: What kind of mother ignores her child? What kind of mother abandons her child?
On the way home, I didn't cry.
