by Megan Brien
Up until last week, my cat and I have always had a straightforward relationship. Simply put, she hated me. Ever since my family adopted her six years ago, it was clear from the get-go that the two of us would never be friends. She continuously thwarted my efforts at showing her affection, batting away my desperate, open palm without so much as a glance. Once, after having watched her nestle into my mother’s leg, I made the mistake of calling her a “little snuggle muffin.” The look I received was one of pure, undeniable fury. What did I do to earn such malice? This question would go on to haunt me for years. With no hope of reconciliation, the two of us settled into a comfortable dynamic of mutual avoidance.
Now, everything is different. That is, different in a way that is exactly the same except for the fact that she’s seen me masturbate. I’d like to go ahead and say that it was never my intention for this to happen. But times like these have ushered in a new idea of ‘normalcy,’ and I am not sorry to say that my standards have slipped when it comes to boundaries. Did I notice that she was in the room when I was already in the midst of touching myself? Yes. Did I stop and remove her from the room before continuing? No. And I’ll tell you this: I don’t know how much she really cared.
Life goes on. Sometimes there’s a global pandemic, and sometimes you diddle yourself in front of your pet. I’m here as proof that no matter what you do, if your cat hates you then they probably always will. Sure, I’ll admit that whenever I pass her in the hallway, or see her lounging on the couch, I feel a small pang of shame. But, am I a monster? I don’t think so. She doesn’t seem to be affected by it in the slightest. My apologetic ear scratches are met with vitriol, as they always have been. So much for the naive “Quarantine Buddies” collar tag I made two weeks ago. I guess I’ll be attaching it to my phone instead.
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