Emperor Julius, like many royal felines around the globe, has a long roster of official duties to do in his household. Among many roles, he is his house’s ruler, supervisor, mouse hunter, and blanket-tester. But that is not all that Julius does in his household–one of his most important roles, perhaps, is that of being a muse to his creative human.
It is a well-known fact that humans often look to the natural world around them for inspiration for their work. The natural world abounds with sources of inspiration for human creatives — beautiful sunsets, luscious trees, colorful flowers, all sorts of animals big and small–and, according to Emperor Julius, the most inspirational animal of all of these is none other than the royal, self-assured house cat. Cats are one of the best muses in the world, especially when writer’s block and other kinds of creative struggles are afoot.
Lately, his human has been struggling with her creative endeavors, and the Emperor has seen to it that he helps to the best of his ability. He, like most cats, has found that being a feline muse comes more or less naturally to him. To ensure he is in his best, most inspirational shape, he spends many hours on his appearance: fluffing his fur, sharpening his nails, perfecting his handsome features. Then he walks in front of his human like a radiant puff of orange sunlight, carefully stepping delicately and purposefully in an elegant dance in the hopes of giving her inspiration. Emperor Julius believes that looking upon beauty inspires beauty, and what could be more beautiful than seeing a royal cat showing off his best side? He even dances on her paper, leaving hints and directions on the empty page for her to follow.
For some reason, his human does not yet seem completely moved by Julius’ efforts–she says that he is not in fact showing her his best side but rather his butt, but this only shows that she does not always have the best taste and that she is still a work in progress after all these years. She has not yet picked up on the hints that he tries to give her by walking across her pages, but nevertheless, he persists, playing out the silent dance of inspiration for her. Eventually, with the Emperor’s steady, patient guidance, she will no doubt come to see the world the way he does, with all its beauty, all its colors, and all its best parts.
It has been some months since the last missive from his Royal Highness himself, the Grand Emperor Julius, who spent his winter months in the quiet reprieve of his cold-weather quarters. Winter is a season of slowing down and introspection at Casa Julius, and this winter was no different from the traditions of previous ones. Many days evenings were spent in a fuzzy chair by the fire, lazily tail-flicking through this period of lengthening darkness and bitter snowy nights. His Highness had ample time for deep thinking during this cold-weather respite. An emperor, after all, has many important things to think about, such as how to maintain superiority over Dog and how to best knead a blanket for maximum comfort.
But winter is more than just an opportunity for rest and enhanced metacognition–it is also a time for caring for the body, a chance to build up the strength that will be needed for the challenges of spring (such as careful birdwatching at the window) and the struggles of summer (fending off more frequent bouts of intense, breakneck, ramshackle Dog activity that the humans so flippantly call “zoomies”, as if they are something cute and funny). As such, it is important for an emperor cat to prioritize fitness and diet during the winter, to ensure preparedness for the trials of the upcoming seasons. As a seasoned emperor, Julius has learned well the tricks of the trade to ensure a successful wintering and preparation for the more active months of the year, and he feels moved by his good graces to share his strategies with other feline emperors.
First, it is important to make sure to eat amply and regularly and with great appetite. Some animals, such as bears, seem to have had this figured out a long time ago. It is vital to lay down stockpiles as early as possible, to give your body something to work with when it needs it the most. Unfortunately, humans, with their propensity for silly things such as diets, may not initially be impressed by your desire for increasing your body’s energy stores. They will unlikely be willing to increase your rations, no matter how much you nag and threaten them. (Some humans are more malleable than others, however, so it’s worth a try, especially in the wee hours of the morning when they are at their most vulnerable and trying to sleep.) Should these honest attempts fail, you are left with only one option, and that is the route of self-directed self-preservation. You will have to steal and strongarm your way into higher rations (dog food is a quick and easy source of extra calories). Do not feel bad, and do not let Dog’s whining deter you–know that you are doing this with an ultimate greater purpose. The humans may deride you for “getting fat” or “growing pudge”, but all cats already know that humans are fools, so it is important not to let their comments worry you too much. Stealing olive oil from the bottle on the countertop and licking savory remains off dishes forgotten in the sink are also worthwhile sources that should not be overlooked.
Second, exercise is vital. To ensure that your extra calories are going to good use, you need to focus on building muscle and full-body strength so you can be in tip-top shape to tackle the events of the warmer seasons. If you are like Julius, you may not have access to the great circus of the outdoors for practice, but it is probably too cold and wet to be enjoyable outside anyway. You have to make the most of the territory that you have at your disposal. Running a circuit around the kitchen, particularly late at night when all the humans are in bed, can provide a fruitful obstacle course for working out your legs and lungs. Nothing feels better than a good victory cry when you have successfully completed several laps around the countertops, across the sink, and on to the pinnacle of the top of the fridge.
Third, don’t neglect your sleep. Sleep is essential to both building muscle and storing fat, so make sure you are getting your full sixteen hours. More is always better–the more you sleep, the stronger you become, and the more capable you will be in responding to Dog’s increased frenzy and frothing when the first tantalizing smells of spring begin to waft through the windows. Sleep well, and sleep seriously. The humans and Dog might not understand why it is so important, but know that you are doing this for good reason. The rest of the household might wear themselves out with silly toiling and fussing during the day, but they will never be as strong as you will be. You are, after all, the Emperor, and you must make sure you keep your standing.
Emperor Julius hopes his advice will be useful far and wide for feline emperors around the world. May your spring be full of birds and sunlight and very few tribulations from Dog.
When I returned from a week in Baltimore visiting my daughter, my cat sitter said, with a look of disgust, “Your cat eats flies.”
I felt a surge of pride and reached down to scratch Pepper behind the ears. She figure-eighted around my ankles.
“There’s no accounting for taste,” I said.
I love living close to nature, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have boundaries. Every animal defends its territory, and I’m no exception. The space within these walls is mine.
The walls I’m talking about are the ones erected inside this barn I call home. The loft was converted to living space 50 years ago by hippies who were good with hammer and saw but not too concerned with sealing every nook and cranny. The exterior barn walls are porous – good for drying hay, but not for keeping out critters. The interior walls are insulated and relatively tight. But between the two are countless gaps and cavities accessible to nature. And below, the dry laid stone foundation and sliding doors of what used to be horse stalls admit all manner of rodent. Those same stone walls are also home to a large colony of garter snakes, who can be found warming themselves on the field stone patio by the front door on any given sunny summer day. That took some getting used to, but the enemy of my enemy is my friend, and no doubt they eat a lot of mice.
The mice they don’t eat sometimes find their way into the space I defend. It used to be worse. During the first year, I battled them with traps and poison with no apparent effect. I discovered why when I finally moved the old upright piano out of the kitchen. It was ridiculously heavy, so I disassembled it in an attempt to lighten it up. This proved futile – the weight was concentrated in the massive cast iron sound board – but in the process I discovered that the inside of the instrument was a virtual mouse hotel. It’s where they lived and where they (at least those I didn’t exterminate) died, judging by the number of desiccated carcasses under the keyboard.
Eliminating this refuge reduced the mouse population – or perhaps merely concentrated them between studs and joists. I’d been in denial about the stains on the kitchen ceiling, but one afternoon, in a fit of madness, I tore it down. Hours later, standing knee deep in mouse shit and piss-stained sheetrock, I eyed the kitchen walls, crowbar in hand. Fortunately, reason asserted itself and I realized I was approaching a point of diminishing returns.
That’s when I got Pepper.
I haven’t seen a mouse or evidence of mice since. Maybe they’re all gone. Maybe natural selection has favored those that carry a boundary awareness gene, and they are content to stay on their side of the wallboard. So who can blame Pepper, her favorite prey exhausted, having to find what pleasure she can in flies and spiders and such.
When the cat sitter left. I emptied a can of Friskies salmon pate into a bowl.
It’s about midnight, I’m in the second production meeting of the night and I’m dozing off. Pulling off professional scale film productions on the nights and weekends while being a full time student is the nature of film school, so this is nothing out of the ordinary. They’re talking about lenses right now, anyway. Being the casting director, that’s far enough from my department that I use my wakeful moments to think about the reading on utilitarianism I need to do tonight. We touched on utilitarianism in the elective I took last semester, so I can just skim through it. If I get home at 1 AM and send out the callback invitations right away, I can do the reading and be in bed by 3—
My phone buzzes with a text from my roommate: “Marla ate a shoelace. I tried to catch her but she ran away.” Marla is my cat. I’m not quite sure what to make of this. I believe animals have strong natural instincts and thus can take care of themselves. If my cat ate a shoelace, surely she knew what she was doing and she’ll be alright.
When I get home my roommate tells me she saw Marla with just a little bit of the shoelace hanging out of her mouth and tried to grab her, but Marla got away. She tells me one of her cats growing up did the same thing and had to have surgery. Not my cat, I think. Marla’s smart. My roommate closed Marla in the bathroom because she threw up on the carpet after eating the shoelace. While I’m not sure what to make of the whole shoelace thing, this provokes an emotional reaction in me. My darling kitty locked in the cold bathroom alone.
When I enter the bathroom, Marla greets me with her usual loud meow–she’s a very vocal cat. I play with her and she seems perfectly fine. I bring my laptop into the bathroom to search the internet for advice and observe Marla, who behaves like she always does. The concerned pet owners of discussion forums separate into two groups: the first one says that it’s not a big deal and the shoelace will just come out, while the second one says that I need to take her to the vet immediately. It’s 2 AM, I’m tired, my cat seems fine. Maybe I should just do the reading. Mulling over my options, I pass out on the bathroom floor.
Having successfully navigated my way through that utilitarianism reading discussion, I arrive home the following night to find a lethargic kitty. By the look of her bowls, she didn’t eat or drink all day. After agonizing over it for a bit, I decide to take her to an emergency clinic I found online–it’s about 11 PM now, so my vet is closed–that’s pretty close and advertises a $50 diagnostic exam. Wrestling her into the carrier is less impossible than usual, so it is clear that she’s not feeling well at all.
The doctor at the ER tells me that “swallowing an elongated object” is a common problem for domesticated cats and dogs. She suggests feeding my cat barium and doing a series of X-rays overnight to determine where exactly the shoelace is. I suspect this is not included in the $50 exam, but when I ask about the price, she smiles and assures me they’ll bill me at the front desk.
The front desk lady presents me with a bill for $800. I stare at it and contemplate my options. I always judge the people who try to crowd-fund their pets’ medical bills, I think it’s wasteful to spend so much on animals—especially if you don’t have the money—when free puppies and kittens are easy to come by. Marla herself was free on Craigslist and I didn’t even want her at first–my roommate gave her to me against my wishes when I was grieving for another cat. I suppose I could take Marla home. But to do what? Slowly die of thirst and hunger? I want to ask them for other options, but I quiet the thought the moment it forms. “Other options” sounds like a nice way of asking them to kill my cat. My mom just wired me the deposit for my class trip to the Sundance Film Festival, so I have enough money for this.
An uncomfortable feeling squeezes my stomach. Wait, this is just to find out where the shoelace is. Then what? Am I spending money earmarked for a trip I’ve been dreaming about for years just to find out Marla needs a medical procedure I can’t afford? It still seems like the best option right now. I hand my debit card to the smiling lady and sign the bill. It’s 2 AM and I drive home alone. I am confused and scared, but I try to stay hopeful. I think about the kitten that’d hide under the bed in her new home while I was on the porch weeping for my previous cat that had just gone missing. I think about how I felt back then. Despite my expectations of that previous cat coming back, despite being upset at my roommate for making this decision for me, the most powerful feeling I had was to be nice to the cat who got caught in the middle of it. I would lift my mattress off the bed frame and scoop up a little ball of fur that would start purring instantly. She still does that. But for how long? I try not to think about that.
I send a begging email to my mom, who tells me that I really shouldn’t have a cat that’s this expensive. It feels like a punch in the guts. What exactly are you saying, mom? I completely agree, but I didn’t want this to happen and certainly didn’t cause it. She must understand that, because she does wire the money, saving my Sundance trip. I happily accept this in lieu of a few birthdays and Christmases to come.
The next morning I go back to pick up Marla, fully expecting to hear she needs a surgery I can’t afford. Over the barium-bright intestines of my cat on the X-rays, the doctor points at the grayish scramble she maintains is the shoelace and tells me Marla will simply poop the shoelace out. Before I can process this information enough to ask if I’d just spent 800 bucks on medical care just to find out that no medical care is, in fact, needed, she says that the contrast fluid can sometimes help things move along better. I am happy to be reunited with my cat and choose not to question things much further. I’ve never been so excited about poop in my entire life.
A day and a half later, however, the shoelace poop is nowhere to be found and I call my vet. They tell me to bring Marla in.
I’m crying the whole way to the Pet Hospital. That is to say, I’m ugly sobbing. They do an X-ray to confirm what I already fear: Marla needs surgery. I am bawling all the way through the conversation. The doctor shows me an estimate for $1600. She explains they’ve tried to keep the costs down, they’re not billing everything they’d normally bill for. I appreciate it, but I still don’t have that much money. She offers me a special credit card for health emergencies, but I just swallow my tears. Thanks to my non-resident alien immigration status and lack of US income, I don’t get to do credit cards. The doctor is extremely nice and understanding. She disappears to talk to her manager and comes back with a payment plan: if I pay half right now, I can pay the other half in $100 monthly increments. I am overpowered by happiness and gratitude. Goodbye, Sundance Film Festival, goodbye going out in the next eight months, I don’t care. I sign the papers and hand over my Visa. I just got a payment plan out of the goodness of my vet’s heart.
Once again, I go home alone. This time, however, I’m feeling much better about everything. I email my mother and good family friends asking for their help, offering to give up a few more birthdays and Christmases. To my surprise, I get a quick response: they will help me out! Even my mother sounds more understanding than last time.
I am happy I still get to go to Sundance, but even more excited to pick up Marla after her surgery. The next thing I do is sign her up for medical insurance. Her policy is better than mine, but that feels appropriate. In just a few days, I completely reinvented my views on pet medical spending and insurance.
I struggle to morally and intellectually justify what I did. How many perfectly healthy cats are killed in shelters every day? How many people die each day around the world because of conditions preventable with a $3 vaccine? How many malaria nets does $2400 buy?
It’s a good thing I’m not a utilitarian because I get to keep my cat. The formerly shy kitty now actively showers me with affection. Every day, I come home to a loving creature. She purrs loudly and demands to be held. She climbs on my back and sits on my shoulders. “Thanks for not putting me down,” she seems to say when she licks my lips, overjoyed. It’s hard to measure happiness, but this feels like the best way to spend that money.
Sir Socks Le Chat 