I’m not a cat lady, but I live with one. Well, she’s more of a “cat girl.” She’s my daughter, Abby, and she’s 20. She’s not a cat lady in the traditional sense of the word – she only had one 18-year-old cat, Rosebud, until Rosie went to that big catnip filled sandbox in the sky a few months ago.
I’ve never been a fan of cats, and my kids will tell you that I had a love-hate relationship with Roise, that focused mostly on hate (except in the last year of her life, when much to my chagrin, she became my constant companion). I tolerated Rosebud because both my kids loved her, but Abby was obsessed with her.
When I was visiting with a single guy recently, he said he was ignoring the attention of a young, attractive woman because she had a cat and he feared she was a “cat lady.” A few years ago, I would have agreed with him whole-heartedly by spending at least five minutes making fun of women who care too much about cats. But watching my daughter in the final two years of her beloved cat’s life changed my mind about cat ladies.
Here’s what I want single guys to know about that cute girl who is in love with her cat(s).
They value independence
One of the primary reasons I never loved cats was because they act like they could care less if you live or die, as long as you remember to fill their food dish. They strut around like they own the place, and are only affectionate with you if no other cats are looking. (Rosie actually became annoyingly clingy in the last two years of her life – prior to that she packed way too much attitude.)
Girls who love cats value independence. They enjoy affection and curling up with you, but they don’t need your constant attention.
They have a sense of humor
It’s easy to dismiss cat ladies at nut-jobs, but if you dig a little deeper, you will probably find a girl with a unique sense of humor. Think of it this way – if she thinks the completely underwhelming things that her cat does is funny, she’s going to find you downright hilarious.
Rosebud used to drive me insane. In her final months, she was at my heels like a dog. I swore she was doing it deliberately, in an effort to make me trip and break a leg (that love-hate thing went both ways – when she got mad at me, she used to grudge-puke in my closet). She clawed at my favorite bench, and I swore she stared at me with a look of defiance when she did it. She hopped up on kitchen chairs at dinner time, acting as if we had forgotten to set a place for her at the table.
No matter how habitual or annoying her habits were, both my kids – but my daughter in particular – thought she could do no wrong. The one who was often chastised and scolded when Rosebud behaved badly was me – you know, the woman who gave both my children life – for pointing it out.
They adore furry creatures who don’t communicate clearly
Knowing what I know about cat ladies, if I were a guy, I’d probably seek out a girl with a cat because cat ladies adore hairy creatures who don’t communicate clearly. If I’m a guy that means (on occasion) I’m probably going to get away with not shaving for a few days and grunting responses when I don’t feel like talking.
I had reservations about what kind of mother I thought my daughter would grow in to. Don’t misunderstand me – she has an enormous heart. That said, she made us get up and leave one day when a little kid puked a few tables over. It wasn’t a, “Hey Mom, run that pizza into you. I suddenly don’t have any appetite,” it was more like, “Oh-kay. I’ll meet you in the car.” She couldn’t get out of there fast enough and appeared to have zero sympathy for the little kid or his poor parents.
Fast forward a few years to when our beloved Rosie was ailing. When she turned 17, Rosebud was diagnosed with liver failure and given six months to live. She lived another year and half. And the only reason she did was because of the tireless nurturing and caring Abby provided to her lifelong friend. She left several water dishes all over the house because Rosie’s failing kidneys made her constantly thirsty. She religiously gave Rosie her medication, patiently waiting for Rosebud to take it – which some nights was a real chore. And without fail, every 10 days Abby hauled her aging companion into the vet to have her fluids done so she would be more comfortable in her final months. Suffice it to say that I went from thinking, “I wonder what kind of mom Abby will be” to telling her, “If you are half as nurturing to a human baby as you are to that cat, you’ll be the best mom I know.”
All images via Kat/Abby Hobza
Latest posts by Kat Hobza (see all)
- The TSA agent with the blue gloves was surprisingly gentle - May 8, 2019
- Rant: Why the word “needs” got ta go - January 17, 2018
- Jane Goodall, Mariah Carey and sourdough bread: Feminism needs a new name - December 7, 2017