Nine Years

Marcy turns nine years old today.  Our Cinco de Mayo girl.  That’s appropriate considering how many parties she’s helped host in her lifetime.

The first thing I did when I came to Los Angeles, a city where I knew no one at the time, was get a cat.  I had grown up with cats and, having lived with roommates in New York City and then in a dorm at graduate school, had been unable to get one of my own.  Until now.

“But I’m allergic!” cried Mr. Candy, my then-fiancé who was still in business school at the University of Chicago.  I swear he even punctuated his plea with a sneeze.  Apparently, just the thought of a cat caused a reaction.   Yes!  His allergies were THAT strong.

“Oh no,” I sympathized.  “I guess you’re going to have to stock up on tissues.”

It’s my sensitivity that made Mr. Candy fall for me, I think.

I strode into the breeder’s house armed with only one hard-and-fast criterion:  I wanted a male kitten.  Males were more laid-back, I believed, PLUS I did not want the responsibility of spaying a female.  Do you know what they do to those poor girls, what with the ovaries and the uterus and whatnot?  Just saying the medical term for it is painful:  Ovariohysterectomy.  Painful, right?  Gets stuck in your throat, kind of like one of Marcy’s countless hairballs.  Ovariohysterectomy.  Uh-uh.  Couldn’t do it.

“We just had a big litter.  A few of the boys are over here,” explained the helpful and kind breeder, Lisa.

I sat on the floor with the kittens — little fluffballs, all of them — and started to reach for one of the boys when a certain fluffball with a spot on her nose walked right up to me, climbed on my lap and promptly wrapped herself around my arm.  I was a goner.

“She’s really playful.  The first one at my side every morning,” said Lisa.

My heart dropped a little.

“‘She’…?”

“Yes.”

The fluffball nuzzled my arm some more.  Oh, she was working me.  HARD.

“I’ll take her.”

I hadn’t planned on taking one home that night, so I didn’t have my checkbook, a kitty carrier, nada.

“You can pay me later,” Lisa shrugged, handing me a box containing my spotted fluffball.  “Enjoy!”

I left the breeder’s house that night with my first real friend in Los Angeles:  Marcy.  I named her after my favorite TV sitcom producer and inspiration, Marcy Carsey — a woman whose name may actually be more silly-sounding than my own.

And enjoy Marcy, I have.  We have, I should say, because Mr. Candy ended up being the biggest sucker of all and, as it turns out, not allergic to long-haired cats.  Miraculously, he no longer sneezes when I say “cat” either!  HEALED!  The makers of Claritin should bottle his “miracle cure.”  Really.

(RAISING A MARGARITA:)  Here’s to nine years of Marcy snuggling on my lap as I comb her.  Nine years of walking her on a leash out in the courtyard — and her purring the moment she sees the leash.  To the anal-retentive girl who takes such care in covering her poop, we’ve gone through several presidential administrations by the time she’s finished — and who disgustedly covers her brother’s messes for him, too.  To the cat who affectionately nestled herself beside my baby bump and became intensely depressed when I actually had the baby and she took Marcy’s long-standing place on my lap.  To the cat who now follows Miss Skye everywhere… and still plays with the energy of a sprightly fluffball who’s all head.  To the cat who’s given me even more laughs than her namesake.

Here’s to nine more, Miss Marcy.  Cheers!

P.S. — You don’t look a day over five.  Must be those Catox injections!  (Such an L.A. kitty.)