An Exceptional Cat: My Jenny Year

 

“I’m not alone in my obsession; cats make us laugh and God knows we need joy. Among my favorites is ‘Orange and Jobless,’ a reel in which a furry orange cat does virtually nothing to the tune of a soap opera theme song. One of the best things about a cat is that a cat makes you not seem lazy, for no matter how little you’ve done on a given day, the cat has done far less. Sitting on the sofa reading a book while petting Jenny gave me an excuse, but now any laziness in my day is mine to own.”—Kathryn Livingston

Words & Wonder

By Kathryn E. Livingston

“What greater gift than the love of a cat.”—Charles Dickens

BOGOTA New Jersey—(Hubris)—September/October 2026—This year I fell in love. Not with a man, woman, child, or place. With a cat, an adorable Siberian cat that I was babysitting for more than a year for my son while an extensive renovation took place on his house. During this year, I officially joined the ranks of the crazy cat ladies (yo, Taylor!). But what does one do when the cat is gone? Is it because of this damn crazy world that we get so attached? Yoga teaches nonattachment but, after 20-some years of practice, I’ve not come close. 

Although I knew she was on loan, I confess that I became glued to the cat and as much as I detested being awakened by her pitiful meow at 5:30 a.m. I arose almost joyfully, tromped downstairs, administered her pets, and served her food. (She is a picky cat goddess preferring the priciest brands as well as superior cat grass purchased at Whole Foods; in NJ a lawmaker has introduced a pet tax credit and after a year of feeding Jenny I believe this makes good sense, as does New York City Mayor Mamdani’s opening of a pet food pantry program.) I viewed my role as cat mother just as I had my role as mother to three sons; I embraced it without malice despite the years (nay, decades) of sacrifice and exhaustion. 

“By virtue of how you relate to cats you should not be allowed to have one,” observed my husband one dark early morning when Jenny began her aria.

“Well, I can’t just ignore her.”

“Hence my reasoning,” he intoned.

We’d had similar conversations about our children, but I had no more inclination to “train” Jenny not to wake us than I’d had to “train” our babies to sleep through the night by a process known as Ferberizing (an 80s thing), meant to help them learn to self-soothe (a method, in my opinion, that flies in the face of maternal instinct). That being said, yes, I’m aware that a cat is not an infant.

I was committed to that cat until the dreaded day when we returned her to her loving cat parents (my son and daughter-in-law) in Pittsburgh, six hours away. She is content in her newly renovated home, with lots of new, exciting spots to explore and snooze, but for days after her departure I looked for her in all her favorite NJ spaces (of which there were many). I had placed cozy blankets and quilts in various locations—on the two couches in our living room, on the radiators (she loved to warm herself there), on the bed in the spare room, on the trunk in our bedroom, on my long departed Great Aunt Jenny’s velvet antique chair (Jenny upon Jenny’s parlor chair: how sweet). She was a little sprite—she could turn up anywhere. And now . . . well, she’s gone. 

When we brought Jenny home to Pittsburgh (she mewing frantically for four of the six-hour drive) I sat in the back seat next to her cat carrier, weepily comforting her as my husband drove. I carried on when our sons left home for college as well, but I make no apologies (admittedly I didn’t lose it in front of them the way I did with the cat). As an 18-year-old, tattooed football player who once lived next door told me when my middle son was graduating from high school and heading off, “It’s OK to cry, Mama.” So, cry I did. Times three. Well, four. (And, how fitting that I had to bring Jenny back to the city that stole my boy—the home of Carnegie Mellon University.) 

To be honest, however, having a cat definitely cramped our style, and in our country’s 250th year, when freedom is on our minds, I’m aware that any pet requires commitment and vigilance, just like our republic. We love to pick up and go at a moment’s notice; to the beach, to the mountains, or wherever. And perhaps we still could have done this, leaving Jenny to fend for herself with a daily visit from a friend or neighbor. But after a few tries, I put the brakes on our excursions. This annoyed my mate, but I was armed with Sweden’s proclamation that cats need physical and mental stimulation every day. To leave them alone is literally against the law there: the Animal Welfare Act requires that a cat must be visited, fed, and amused daily. I could tell that Jenny was stressed when we went anywhere for more than a few hours. She would be at the door mewling frantically each time we came back into the house; she’d throw herself on the floor, roll over, and demand petting. (Siberian cats, I’ve read, are a bit more like dogs, though they do not bark.)

Although the health benefits of pet ownership are well documented, I’ve found plenty of advantages to not having a pet. I am no longer stepping (sometimes barefoot) into cat puke, hairballs, or poop (only occasionally did this occur but, hey). I don’t need to close up my laptop every time I leave the room (occasionally, she traipsed across the keys). Nor must I remember to shut the basement door when I go down to do laundry for fear she will follow into the dust and dirty her pretty coat. 

Clearly, my sleep has improved. I’m no longer exhausted and allergic, for the long-haired Siberian Jennifer inspired excessive coughing and sneezing. Should company arrive, there are now more places to sit in our home that are not covered with cat hair. And there is no longer a chance that a creature who has just visited the litter box will then hop up onto the table or prance across the bed (something that before Jenny I never ever would have considered remotely tolerable). And I no longer have to worry about tripping over her scratching pad as my mother, who owned two cats—Jack and Jill—once did, fracturing her pelvis and ending up hospitalized. (In spite of her cats’ equipment causing this distress, she was always loath to leave them under my nearby brother’s perfunctory care to go on a yearly vacation with us. She’d relent and come along, but only now do I understand how guilty she felt. It occurs to me that perhaps this feline loyalty is in our DNA, though I’m not sure if the reverse is in theirs.)

Anyway, I still miss Jennifer and, yes, I know I can get another cat. But Jenny is not just any cat (says every cat owner that’s ever lived). The benefits of Jenny’s purr, her beauty, her deep, knowing gaze and her ability to inspire joy far outweighed any and all disadvantages to having her with me.

Now that Jenny is back on her Pittsburgh block, sometimes in the early morning my husband finds me splayed out on the couch with my phone in hand, laughing aloud. 

“What in the heck are you doing?” he’ll ask. 

“Scrolling through funny cat reels.” 

“This is how you use your technology skills?” 

I’m not alone in my obsession; cats make us laugh and God knows we need joy. Among my favorites is “Orange and Jobless,” a reel in which a furry orange cat does virtually nothing to the tune of a soap opera theme song. One of the best things about a cat is that a cat makes you not seem lazy, for no matter how little you’ve done on a given day, the cat has done far less. Sitting on the sofa reading a book while petting Jenny gave me an excuse, but now any laziness in my day is mine to own.

So, Jenny is in her real home again, and I’m happy for her because a sign of true love is not holding on when we know it’s time to let go. In any case, I’m grateful for my Jenny year (and I do think one day I will seek out a rescue). Not for a moment do I regret that I had her, which can and should be said of just about any love we’ve been gifted. 

I’m packing my bags now for a trip to the Adirondacks; like Jenny, I have to get on with my life and fill it with more adventures . . . and way more sleep.