On losing a boyfriend and getting a cat
Just me and Schmidty vs. the horrors. ❤️
One night in late May of 2023, I realized my relationship was over. The next day, I got a kitten off Craigslist.
It was less of an impulse buy than you might think.
At that point, my relationship was nearing three years, two of which were long distance: him on the West Coast, me in New York. We took turns visiting each other, our lives oscillating between elation and depression, segmented monthly by seven-hour cross-country flights. He was completing grad school, had a job lined up, planned to move to the city and be with me. As his graduation neared, our relationship grew fraught. We were mere months away from his move to the city, and I was convinced he was going to break up with me.
For the first two years of being a couple, I existed in a state that can only be described as “head over heels.” It felt like we were constantly bathed in golden light, like a romantic montage of a happy couple in a movie that sets the stakes before the protagonist’s wife is murdered/dies tragically. After dating less than three months, we called each other soulmates. I hadn’t believed in soulmates before. “You’re the love of my life,” we said. “You’re the best thing that ever happened to me. You’re it.”
But even as we called the other our soulmate, I feared we were too similar, often seeming like cleaved parts of the same whole. I didn’t want to admit it to myself, but he reminded me of a very different woo-woo concept: your twin flame, your mirror, your shadow, the person who comes into your life to challenge you and change you and force you to grow. You don't end up with your twin flame (sorry, Megan Fox).
In good times—and there were mainly good times—we described our future to each other breathlessly. When he graduated, we would move in together. We would be living the dream, DINKs in the same city. We’d get an airy one-bedroom, fill our spice rack with thyme and garam masala and cardamom with no thought to price. Together, we’d adopt a Russian Blue kitten and make a home for the three of us.
Why a Russian Blue? For one, I’m allergic to cats (for better or worse, my own suffering has never kept me from my desires), and they are (somewhat) hypoallergenic. We both liked grey cats, and we particularly liked spelling grey with an e. And we both shared Russian ancestry, so perhaps there was a sense of kinship. In reality, I think it’s simply that I had always wanted a little grey cat, at times a smudge, at times shining pure slate in the morning light. My ex was always more of a bird guy. He may have just loved me.
But that spring, with his move and the next chapter of our lives looming, the cracks were unmistakable. He was under tremendous pressure professionally and personally, he withdrew from me, and I panicked. Where previously we communicated near-constantly, I was lucky to hear from him once a day. He was across the country, he was in crisis, he wouldn’t let me in or let me help. I didn’t know if what I said next would cause him to vanish or send him into a wave of despair. I had just gotten a new job, a pay raise, and had moved alongside my best friend into a new, grown up apartment. For the first time, I felt like I was going through it alone. On May 14, 2023, I wrote in my Notes App: “I think I may be very unhappy.”
A few weeks later, a scheduled FaceTime date went horribly wrong. I found myself in lingerie, being held by my roommate as my sobs turned to dry heaves. By 3 am, my mind simmering with nonstop chatter, I opened Craigslist and typed in “Russian Blue kitten.”
The next day, I got a call from a woman to whom I’d sent an inquiry.
I said I was interested in her female kitten.
“She’s very sweet,” she replied. “But my favorite kitten is a boy. I’ve been calling him ‘Sassy’ because he’s so feisty and playful.”
“That’s it,” I said. “That’s the one.”
I got Schmidty—short for Mr. Schmidten Kitten—on May 25, 2023. He was eight weeks old and two pounds, three ounces, small enough to cup in my palms. Consumed with cute aggression, I put his tiny paws, his velvety ears, sometimes his whole head in my mouth. When Schmidty’s tiny body wasn’t rocketing around our still-bare apartment, he was nestled in my collar bones, his purring vibrating against the cords of my throat.
Taking care of the cat was an outlet into which I could channel my grief. Determined not to give him abandonment issues, I spent hours each day with Schmidty: on his enrichment, playing, tons of napping. Kittens need eighteen hours of sleep each day, you know, much like girls going through breakups. We listened to Silver Springs on repeat. When I wept, which I did a lot that spring and summer, his downy fur soaked up my tears. Almost all of the pictures of me from this period in my life are selfies: selfies of me crying, and selfies of me in bed, cradling Schmidty.
On July 13, 2023, I wrote in my Notes App: “just me and Schmidty vs the horrors.”
My boyfriend and I never spoke about how I, independently, got the cat we planned on adopting together. We stayed together a couple months after I got Schmidty, a period that’s still tender to think about. Sometimes I consider it my greatest act of betrayal: I got our cat without him. I knew it was over and continued with life nonetheless. In other ways I think it was a testament to my love: I fought for the relationship for three months after my heart broke. I wonder how he felt about it, if he ever really believed in that DINK life we dreamed about together. If he knew his New York wouldn’t have me in it.
What I do know: having a small, warm animal to love and care for is one of the best things that’s ever happened to me. I know that when I finally got rid of the stuffed animals my ex gifted me, when I needed something soft to cuddle, I had Schmidty. I know that during Thanksgiving dinner, when asked what I was most thankful for, I said Schmidty without a hint of irony. That even though I didn’t start a new life with the man I loved, I did start a new life. That I found a best friend and unconditional love.
That I lost a boyfriend, but I found my soulmate.
Although I must say, it’s hard to lead a hot girl lifestyle with a litter box in your bedroom.
