Happy Birthday Mozart!

For my 24th birthday, in August of 2009, I picked out an insane, strange, incredibly cute gray kitten. We had been looking for a kitten for a while, but I knew I would know in my gut when I found the right one. We walked into PetSmart (I was living in Ohio at the time) and I saw her. She was there with a local pet adoption group. She was solid gray, tiny but long, with huge, bat-like ears and beautiful green eyes. The minute I saw her, I said "that's my kitten!"

We were told that she had been found on the side of the road with her brothers and sisters, all of whom had already been adopted. She was the last one left, and she came home with us the next day. She was my first-ever kitten and even though she didn't sit still, I loved her immediately. She had an ear infection and had probably been spayed too early; she compulsively chewed her foot; she howled in the middle of the night for no reason; she was neurotic and annoying and rude, but she was mine. 

Today is her seventh birthday, and I can't really believe she's been with me for almost that entire time (minus her first three months and two months while I tried out New York living). She follows me around, literally eats her toys, sometimes throws up tubes of unchewed food, screams in my face almost every morning at 5:30am, sticks her butthole on everything and once woke me up by stepping in my mouth. She plays fetch like a dog and when we replaced our refrigerator we found 48 cat toys underneath (plus a few bottle caps, twist ties and a jingle bell). 

She's always been chatty, but since moving to an apartment where she's now the sole cat, she's become much more vocal. I took her to the vet to make sure she was ok, and paid a hundred dollars to be given a diagnosis of "probable anxiety," with a prescription of cat pheromones, calming treats and puzzle toys. She's the best and the worst cat, but I can't help but love her to pieces. She means so well. It breaks my heart to see her struggle—she's been there for me through break-ups, cross-state moves, three different New York apartments, questionable hair style choices, late nights, early mornings and everything else I've gone through in the last seven years. 

Sometimes her ears are so soft and warm I can hardly handle it. Once, I made up a jingle for her: "Who's cute and pretty and gray and smart? It's Mozart! It's Mozart!" We named her Mozart after a long list of options that included Sam Handwich, Pluto and Pamcakes. Mostly I call her my Sweet Pea. Some days I pick her up and tell her she's ruining my life, but that's just me being sleep-deprived and dramatic. I'm pretty sure she stares at me while I sleep, and when she licks me I think she's tasting my face. If I died alone with her, I'm 99% sure she'd start eating me before I was cold.

I bought a door stop just because it looked like her foot. All of my bedding (and a lot of my clothing) is gray because of her. Sometimes her poo smells terrible, even though I'm feeding her the exact same food. She loves sticking her face in my food, and once she licked my hot sauce bottle and immediately regretted it. She steals change, dollar bills, bottle caps, rubber bands, pieces of string and chewed holes in my sweaters when she was a kitten. She has no idea what to do with real live mice. She refuses to wear costumes, but I once bought her an Egyptian Pharaoh headdress just in case. She's beautiful and regal and velvety and her fur smells really good. She's a fan of the hard pet, still compulsively chews her foot on me every chance I let her and greets me at the door with a chorus of screams. 

Of course I can imagine a life without her where I blissfully sleep until my alarm goes off and where everything I own is not covered in cat hair, but then she rolls on her back and flashes me her bedroom eyes—which I know is totally manipulative but I fall for it anyway—and I'm so glad we adopted each other.