This is my cat. Her name is Eleanor. (After Eleanor Roosevelt, of course.) She is about seven months old, and I adopted her from a family in Wisconsin who couldn't keep her. She chirps instead of meowing, she loves to play, she's missing a little bit of one ear, and the spot on her right side is in the shape of a heart. She's quirky and I couldn't have found a more perfect cat.
Cats are just as cute on the internet as they are in real life.
I have wanted a cat of my own for a long time--my family has had two cats, but they always liked my mom best. My father never let me have a cat at his house, and so I have been relatively cat-less my entire life. That has changed, and it is just as wonderful as I thought it would be. I clean the litter box and feed her twice a day and I don't find it tedious or boring. Eleanor makes my life better, and taking care of couldn't be a chore.
Almost literally too-cute.
I've written about my anxiety disorders here before. I thought having a cat would help with that, but I had no idea how much. When I wake up, she is always there--and I wake up earlier, too. Her purrs calm me down. Petting her calms me down. Instead of laying in my bed staring at my phone or computer, I'm laying in my bed bonding with my new cat. On the weekends, I'm more likely to go to bed earlier, and subsequently not drink as much, because I know she's waiting for me at home. The first cat I grew up with, Arabella, was my mother's, and she lived until she was nineteen. Their bond was strong, I could tell how much it hurt my mother when Arabella died. I look forward to having that much time with Eleanor, to bonding and chirping and playing and having her curled up on my lap while I read. I'm living in an apartment for the first time and learning how to be responsible in so many different ways--a cat is just the best one.