Oh, Mimi!

I was awakened at 2:00 this morning by the familiar ug, ug of my cat retching, right beside my bed.

"Oh, Mimi," I sighed.

Preferring to wait until daylight to clean it up, I nudged Kev, who kind of opened one eye.

"Don't step in the cat puke," I mumbled, before rolling over and going back to sleep.

Unfortunately, this was not the first time I had to warn Kev not to step in whatever Mimi's left behind--be it a hairball or partially digested cat food...or, because Mimi thinks she's part dog, whatever she scavenged out of the kitchen garbage can that did not agree with her sensitive kitty tummy. But I suppose its the price we pay for being pet owners.

Anyone who's met Mimi can attest to the fact that she's no ordinary cat. Some may say she's a bit of a snob, selective in whose lap she sits in or whose stomach (or face) she walks over. Others may comment on her particular good looks, as one of Kev's friends proclaimed, "I'm not too much of a man to say your cat has beautiful eyes." Those allergic to or afraid of cats might say, "Go away, Mimi!" when she chooses pay them special attention, and cat lovers may feel be offended when they call her but she doesn't come; she is, after all, rather coy, and will play with the affections of those too eager to please.

Oh, Mimi.

Mimi and I have been together for more than six years now. In 2004, when I came back to the States after living in China for two years, I was eager to find a job and get my own place. Having lived with two roommates in an apartment this size of a goldfish aquarium in a country where personal space is hard to find, I was looking forward to living by myself in a city with easy access to wide open places. Don't get me wrong, I loved my roommates and Beijing, but always seeing myself as a bit of a lone wolf, I wanted to live alone again. I never figured into the equation the fact that I'd be lonely. While in Beijing it was a rare treat to have the apartment to myself, in Minnesota it was depressing.

"You should get a cat," was my friend Janet's advice when I told her my predicament.

We never had cats growing up because half my family is allergic to them, but the idea was appealing. "A cat? I don't know anything about cats," I replied.

"You'll figure it out," she said. "They're not hard to take care of. You just need to feed them and keep their litter box clean. They're great!"

After getting some books from the library and doing some research into the secret lives of cats, I ran to Walmart and bought some supplies. Then I gave Janet a call. "Will you help me pick out a cat?"

So one Saturday morning, Janet and I headed to Humane Society to find me the perfect feline companion.
It was a bit overwhelming, trying to choose one from among all the cats in cages looking for a home, but when we saw the scrawny brown tabby with the big green eyes pushing her little paw through the bars of the cage, Janet's face lit up. "This could be the one!" she announced.

When we took the little tabby out of her cage and went into the get-to-know-your-potential-new-pet room, she sniffed around for a minute before jumping into my lap, purring like a well-oiled machine. I picked her up so I could look into her face. "Well kitty, looks like it's going to me you and me."

After filling out the paperwork and paying the adoption fee, I tucked the brown tabby in her cardboard carrying box snugly into the back seat of my car. As I drove home that sunny October morning, I remember feeling knots in my stomach and thinking, "Oh my goodness, I've just taken responsibility for another life for the next twenty years. This is scary stuff."

And it was a bit scary. I felt tied down, like I no longer had the option of taking long-term trips out of the country. Even going away for a few days meant I had to find someone to take care of the cat. But at the same time, this little kitty with the big green eyes made herself right at home in my life.

I decided to call my new friend Mimi, which is the Chinese equivalent of "meow." As we got used to each other's routines, Mimi realized that jumping on my face in the middle of the night would get her nowhere except kicked out of the bedroom, and I realized that no matter how many different cat beds I bought, Mimi would never be a cat that slept in a cat bed. I learned not to leave a loaf of bread on the counter because Mimi would bite a hole in the plastic and nibble on the bread, and Mimi learned that if she chased after her little jingle balls and brought them back to me, I would throw them again.

Six years later, Mimi doesn't play fetch too much anymore, but she still tries to sleep on my face. When I pull in the driveway after work, I see her little head sticking out from the vertical blinds in the living room before she turns and runs for the door to welcome me home. She and Kev have developed a mutual respect involving sardines and their own methods of communication. Kev thinks he can interpret her meows. I'm skeptical about that.

And even though there's the occasional hairball in the bedroom...or living room...or hallway, there's something special about being the one Mimi loves most and hearing her little footsteps following me around the house and feeling her warm body by my feet at night.

Oh, Mimi.