People who love cats have some of the biggest hearts around.
~Susan Easterly

During my college days, I began cultivating myself to fit the image I held of an aspiring author. I fancied myself a connoisseur of language and shuddered at others’ misuse of it. Most of all, I scoffed at people who spewed drivel at babies or, even more loathsome, at pets. Although neither babies nor pets were part of my life, I felt quite certain that when they were, I would be a role model for mothers and animal lovers everywhere.

Then one day my friend Marcia called and asked if I would take in a stray cat. “He’s cold and scared,” she said. “He’s been living on my neighbor’s garage roof. Someone dumped him from a car.”

Cats are sensible animals, I thought. I had always admired their regal bearing and independence. Besides, Charles Dickens, H. G. Wells and Mark Twain had all owned cats. I imagined a cat curled at my feet as I typed, perhaps inspiring my creativity to new heights. I invited Marcia to bring over the stray.

As Marcia approached my apartment, I heard rather than saw the cat. He protested loudly until she set the carrier on my living room rug. The moment she opened the door of the carrier, a skinny black cat streaked out, raced into the bedroom, jumped into the bathroom and bathtub, leapt out, then charged back into the living room and onto my lap.

“I’ve got to run,” Marcia said, grabbing the carrier and stepping outside in one smooth move. “Yell if you need anything.”

By this time, the cat was kneading his paws on my stomach in frantic rhythm, much like a boxer jabbing a punching bag. “You’re not shy,” I said wryly. Although the cat was bony, his coat shone blue-black in the lamplight. His mustard-yellow eyes blinked at me momentarily before he resumed his activity.

“I guess I need to call you something.” I choked on my words. Listen to me, I thought. I’m talking to this animal as if he understands.

“Ralph,” I continued, despite myself. “Ralph is a nice, no-nonsense name.” No cutesy Boo-Boos or Fluffys for me.

That night I set down the rules of cathood. Ralph would not be allowed on my bed. He would sleep on the rug in the living room. He would learn to respond appropriately to simple, one-word commands. For my part, I would speak to him like the intelligent animal he was.

After a two-night cycle of putting Ralph on the floor and awakening to find him beside me in bed, I gave in on that rule. I told myself that this was for my good rather than his, because his purring relaxed me, and his warm, fuzzy body felt wonderful against my back.

As the week wore on, we seemed to understand each other perfectly. I made sure not to speak to Ralph other than as master to animal. Then one morning, I accidentally stepped on his tail. Such a pitiful wail! I scooped him up and held him close.

“Oh, Mommy’s so sorry!”

I looked around. Who said that? Oh, no! It was happening. I was beginning to talk like one of them.

Over the next few days, I desperately tried to curb my maternal feelings. I decided to squelch the Mommy business first, but nothing else seemed appropriate. Master was a bit much. Kathy? No, too familiar — I would lose my authority. “Mommy” best summed up my role. So grudgingly, I became Ralph’s mommy… but I promised myself I would make no further concessions.

Then one night Ralph was sick on the carpet. After cleaning up, I hugged and stroked him.

“Poor baby,” I cooed. “Him was sick.”

Him was sick! I envisioned my English professor tightening a noose around his neck. As Ralph napped, I reviewed my worsening condition. I could no longer deny the facts. I was rapidly becoming a pet owner-babbler.

During the next few weeks, I resolved to control every word that came from my lips, but the unthinkable happened. Such aberrations as “You is a widdle baby boy” flowed freely, as though the evil spirit of grammar atrocities possessed me every time I looked at Ralph. Worse yet, he seemed to expect such talk.

One night I decided to go cold turkey. I placed Ralph on my lap so he faced me. “Now,” I began, consciously resisting the babble, “you’re a sensible, intelligent animal. You want an owner who treats you as such, don’t you?”

Ralph’s eyes never moved. I read understanding there, encouraging me to go on. “Henceforth, I will treat you with the dignity and respect such a noble cat deserves.”

Ralph’s mouth was opening. So intent was his stare that for one insane moment, I thought he would speak. He yawned in my face.

“You silly, pweshus baby,” I said, laughing and cuddling him to me.

Now the rules are gone. I never had the authority anyway. Only love and the babbling remain. Does anyone know of a Babblers Anonymous?

— Kathleen M. Muldoon —