I have a cat. There. I’ve admitted to it. Anyone who knows me or follows me on social media knows that I am a dog lover and have three who I refer to as “my pack.” But only those in my closest circle know that a cat also resides in my house.

Before you make assumptions that I’m just a “dog person” or that I am some sort of cat hater, let me stop you right there. I love cats. I’ve spent a lifetime scratching their furry chins attempting to elicit a motorboat purr. I’ve slept with cats curled around my head or perched on my hip as I lay in fetal position. I have a series of urns that hold the cremains of every cat I’ve adopted, cared for, and loved for the past thirty-five years. So, no, I don’t hate cats. It’s just this cat.

When I was fresh out of college and still living with my parents, my first act as a “real” adult was to adopt a cat. I adored Oliver, and he quickly imprinted on me. He followed me everywhere and cried when I left the house. Imagine my confusion when I took him to be neutered, and the vet later called to inform me that the spay was a success. Clearly, I had not been paying close attention but happily brought Olivia home. Soon after that, I met the man who I’d eventually marry and informed him at the outset that I came as a packaged deal. “Love me, love my cat.”

A few years later, my husband and I adopted an orange and white cat, Rex, as a companion for Olivia. Next came Oscar, a plushy gray and white beauty whose tail twitched like Ricky-Ticky-Tavi while I prepared his meals. Roughly two years later, I discovered a colony of feral cats, most of them still kittens, and coordinated efforts with a local vet to capture, spay or neuter, and give vaccines to each of them. While I found homes for many, we added four more to our private collection. That made seven. The following winter, we added Shelley and Leroy to the mix when their previous owner abandoned them in subfreezing temperatures.

Our happy family of nine cats was soon joined by our son, then three years later, our daughter. I remember calling my mother one morning, exhausted from another sleepless night with my colicky baby, and crying in utter defeat on the phone. “My whole life is nothing but cleaning up poopy pants, baby spit-up, and cat vomit.” While she made all the appropriate sympathy noises, I am certain I heard her chuckling to herself on the other end.

One by one, the cats began to die. I lost my beloved Olivia first and bought a bronze urn to enshrine her cremains. Next was Rex, then Oscar. When that urn was full, I bought a second, then a third. As each of my precious cats reached the end of his or her life, my heart would break anew. And, my house grew emptier and lonelier. When we lost our final cat, Cleo, who lived to the impressive age of twenty, my long-suffering husband begged me to let her be the last. While he had loved them all, he wanted a break from the litter boxes and the cat fur and the cigar-shaped hairballs that he’d step on in the dark with his bare feet.

I agreed, fully intending to keep my promise. But, what could I do when I spotted something rustling in the shrubs outside of the restaurant where my aunt and I had just had lunch? I crept closer to see what was there and a tiny, emaciated kitten wobbled toward me on shaky legs, emitting the most pitiful meow I’d ever heard. She was covered in dirt, so I wasn’t even sure of her color, and I scooped her up in my arms. My aunt offered a piece of leftover fish, and the kitten gobbled it without chewing. An employee of the restaurant came out just as I made up my mind that I couldn’t leave that poor creature to fate. I asked him to go back into the building and find me a box, during which time I began to devise a plan to get the kitten into the house without my husband blowing a gasket. By the time the employee returned with a carton that had Budweiser printed on the side, I knew that if I claimed the cat was our ten-year-old daughter’s, my husband would be more likely to relent.

I went to pick up my daughter from a playdate and called to give her a heads up. “Just wait until you see,” I told her with exaggerated enthusiasm as I drew her into the scheme I’d concocted. “I have a surprise for you. A gift!” As I pulled into the driveway, Tara and her friend met my car, bouncing with excitement to see what I’d brought.

The friend peered into the car with mixed confusion and disappointment. “You got her a case of beer?” she asked.

“No!” I laughed, trying to hide my nervousness. “It’s not beer. Here, look inside.”

“You got her a dead cat?”

I peeked into the box and could understand the mistake. The kitten was asleep on her side and looked almost flat from starvation.

“She’s not dead, I swear. I found her outside of a restaurant.” I looked at my daughter, pleading with my eyes. “She’s for you, Tara.”

My ploy worked. Tara was thrilled to have her very own pet, and my husband wasn’t about to rob her of that joy. She named her kitten Cynthia after her recently departed grandmother. We called her Cindy, which became Cindy Lou Who, which became Who, which became Hootie. We bought food and toys and a four-tier indoor cat tree with perches. We cleaned her up, made her an indoor pet, and took her to the vet to begin her on a path toward health.

The true Hootie began to show herself within months. First, she’d squirm to be released when Tara would try to snuggle with her. Then came the hissing. Okay, so maybe she doesn’t want to be held, I thought. We can deal with that. We found that we could hold her for short spurts as long as we kept up the chin scratching. Soon, that was no longer acceptable. But, we could still pet her, so that was what we did. That lasted about six months before she would hiss and smack at the offending hand.

I used to love brushing her long, silky hair but within a year, she’d attack the brush if she saw me brandishing it. Keeping her nails clipped? That became impossible unless I was okay with losing a finger or two. It was about that time the seizures started. After the first, I rushed her to the vet who did the whole battery of tests but couldn’t find the cause. After the second, I tried to get Hootie into a carrier to take her to the hospital again but was met with a menacing growl, hissing, and flailing claws. I backed away.

The years progressed, as did the seizures, as did the increasingly feral behavior. Hootie would hide in rooms and lunge, in full growling-hissing-flailing-claws mode, at passersby. The dogs, who used to think she was another playmate, began giving her a wide berth when walking by her. Even placing her food down became a challenge if she was anywhere in sight. She, quite literally, would bite the hand that fed her. I remember laughing about a story I’d read when a husband and wife called 911 because their cat had them trapped in their bathroom. After finding myself in my own bathroom, with Hootie standing outside of it, wild-eyed, crouched, and growling at me, I no longer thought that story was funny.

With each seizure, Hootie took longer to shake the disorientation, seeming to grow angrier and more ferocious. The vet wanted to see her, but it was impossible to corral her into her carrier. Finally, on New Year’s Day, I knew we couldn’t keep on like this. As our guests relaxed after brunch, the cat came howling into the room, eyes unfocused, and fur going every which way. She seemed confused about where to go. She dashed toward my son who instinctively pulled his legs up on the chair. He’d had more than one instance when contact with the cat left him looking as if he’d been manhandled by Edward Scissorhands. She disappeared under a side table, yowling and hissing. The dogs were panicked, attempting to approach her, then running in terror. I finally managed to help her escape to another room.

The next day I called the vet. I knew it would be impossible to take Hootie in for an exam unless fully sedated, but who could possibly get a tranquilizer down her throat? The doctor listened to my description of the cat’s behavior – the fluctuating moods, when she’d seem perfectly fine then suddenly spitting mad; the occasional confusion, like entering a room and not knowing what she was doing there; her fur disheveled as if she’d forgotten how to groom herself; the yelling and howling. As I heard myself listing the symptoms, I found my heart softening toward her. While the doctor’s distant voice was explaining that, without tests to diagnose, her best guess was a neurological misfiring likely attributed to lack of nutrition as a kitten, I gazed at my beautiful yet misunderstood kitty and felt both sympathy and kinship. I realized that her behavior, minus the seizures, was very similar to my own since I’d started menopause. The mood swings, the mental confusion, the yelling, the unkempt appearance. I knew her cause was neurological while mine was hormonal, but still.

“What can I do for her?” I asked the vet.

“Well, some people might find this behavior too much to handle. It’s really your call. Is she even having any quality of life?”

Quality of life? I knew what the doctor was saying, but I’d never put down an animal unless in obvious pain and distress. How could I do something like that to this cat without pulling out all stops to help her?

Quality of life? Had that thought crossed my husband and kids’ minds when they cowered at my mood swings? When I’d forgotten to brush my hair as I stood in the middle of my living room trying to remember why I’d gone in there?

“Isn’t there something I can give her to calm her down?” I asked, noting the hint of desperation in my voice. “Make her less moody? Maybe help with the seizures?”

She thought for a moment. “Well, since you can’t get pills into her, I’d suggest cannabis oil. We have a formulation specifically for animals. Some pets respond very well to it.”

“Let’s try that!”

Off I went to pick up the oil. I forked out $130 for one bottle and decided my husband didn’t need to know that. Since giving it to her, Hootie has not had another seizure. Maybe it’s a coincidence, but I want to believe this is helping her. I think she’s slightly less aggressive, too. For the past week, she hasn’t growled at me when I set out her food. Plus, she’s back to doing some of the cute things that had endeared her to me at the start, like when she comes running if I call out, “Treat!” There she’ll sit, slightly crazy-eyed but so beautiful, waiting for me to put her Cat-Man-Doo tuna flakes out. She still thinks her long, fluffy tail is a foreign agent that she can’t outrun, but it’s been at least a few days since she’s screeched and waged an attack on it.

So, maybe this cannabis oil is actually helping to address the underlying cause of Hootie’s problems. Or, maybe she’s just stoned. In any event, life with her is less stressful, at least for the time being. Now I’m wondering if menopause is listed as one of the approved medical conditions in my state for obtaining cannabis. I may have to investigate. My family would certainly appreciate it.