Stop Trying to Make Fetch Happen Read online

  And yet, despite his persistence and the hassle and the interruption of my sleep schedule and the frequent disruptions to my work, I’ll admit that I find myself reluctant to do anything to stop him.

  Maybe it’s because I’m no longer the same person I was twenty years ago, when I adopted my first three cats—those early years of cat-ladyhood when I proudly distinguished between myself, an indulgent but still in-control caretaker, and those who referred to themselves as their cats’ slaves. These days, I’m more apt to appreciate the fleeting nature of a cat’s obsessions—of a cat’s life. Clayton is still young, but time moves much faster than it used to. Just yesterday, Clayton was a kitten. Today he’s five. Tomorrow he’ll be a little old man struggling to lug himself around on his three legs. His days of flying up and down the stairs like greased lightning in pursuit of a toy mouse will be a distant, cherished memory. Much sooner than I’m ready for it, I know, a time will come when I’ll think, What wouldn’t I give to play fetch with Clayton just once more!

  No matter how irritated I may get at being interrupted while I’m working or sleeping (or paying my bills, or making a sandwich, or canoodling with my husband), how can I not smile when I see how a humble game of fetch makes Clayton so happy? So happy! His thick club of a tail points straight up and vibrates with his joy. When he does that theatrical, high-speed, baseball-player slide of his, I always, always laugh.

  Every single time.

  The joy of spoiling our cats is that, in giving them simple pleasures, we get them right back. And they remind us that, no matter how complicated our lives, or how complex our relationships, or how sophisticated our desires and goals may become with the passage of years, those simple pleasures are still the ones most worth having. Even as they become harder to find and hold onto.

  I’ll confess, though, that I can’t help missing the old days sometimes. The days when, sure, maybe some people thought Clayton was just a loveable dolt—but at least I got eight hours of uninterrupted, fetch-free sleep every night.

  It’s not in the nature of masters to pity their slaves. Clayton, as much as I know he loves me, is no exception. “Clayton,” I’ll plead to no avail, “I’m trying to write!” Or, “Clayton, I need to sleep!” or, “Clayton, Laurence and I want some ‘alone time’ right now.”

  Alas! My pleas fall on deaf, fuzzy ears.

  Awakened from a sound sleep at five in the morning to a piercing “MEEEEEEE!” two inches from my head, I’ll put on the best I mean business! voice I can muster in the pre-dawn hours. “Clayton,” I’ll tell him, “stop trying to make fetch happen. It’s not going to happen.”

  But that’s a lie, and we both know it. Of course it will. It always does.