When I adopted Polly the Demon Queen early in the pandemic, I was not a cat person. I was not an anti-cat person, but dogs were my preference. I thought I’d just foster her for a few days, and then she’d move along and I’d get a new furry temporary roommate. I still lived in Los Angeles, a beautiful and wild city riddled with lost, abandoned, and feral animals and humans.
Year ago, I had a puppy, but I gave her up in the ensuing breakup proceedings with my boyfriend. It was my choice, and it was the best one for her, but I missed her for years. Time heals certain wounds, and I stopped missing her awhile ago, though I do occasionally inquire after her health. Given the difficult experience of detaching from an animal, I decided I wouldn’t adopt another one until I was really ready.
I’d long had it in mind to foster and then adopt a dog who had been given up by an elderly owner who needed to go into a nursing home, because I figured it would be great to get to share photos and perhaps even a FaceTime call with the original owner. I saw both my grandmothers live in adult care facilities, and knew how some of the residents missed their animals and loved it when an animal would visit. But a dog requires a lot of work. A cat can, as well, but so long as it shits in the proper spot indoors, you’ve at least eliminated the need for walks.
