It was her idea. The cat needed a place to live, and my girlfriend declared us its saviors. The problem? I lived alone. At the time, I was a single guy with a truck and a male-dominated job. What kind of dude owns a cat? Unspeakable.
Naturally, I resisted.
For weeks, she begged me to reconsider, but I made my case: I wouldn’t be around, it would make a mess, friends would refuse to visit. But in the end, I caved. I made the two-hour journey to pick up the bipolar beast and lugged it back to my apartment. Returning home, I opened the carrying-case door, and it slowly emerged, its marshmallow paws tentatively taking one step after another, its nose glued to the ground.
White Sox—that was her name. The year I got her was the year the team won the World Series. Being from Chicago’s South Side, my girlfriend labeled it fate. I labeled it something else.
Yet over time, the cat wore me down. Reading at night, I’d feel her brush against my book’s binding. I’d pull in the drive, and she’d be standing at the door to greet me. Other times, the cat showed an air of independence, going long stretches on her own, often gazing outside as if she had dominion over the other animals on the block. I came to appreciate her self-sufficiency, too proud to beg or roll over.
So when my girlfriend returned to Chicago and took the cat with her, I suddenly found the apartment without life. Somehow, I’d developed an inexplicable fondness for the creature.
Today, friends occasionally ask about the cat. I tell them, “She’s just fine.”
