They Don’t Call Me Crazy Cat Lady for Nothin’

I don’t have a boyfriend.

Even if I did, I’m unsure how he would feel about dating a crazy cat lady. It’s okay. I don’t have time for a serious relationship between work, kids, hobbies, side hustles, working out, cycling, ten cats, and seven kittens.

I have another confession. No one calls me a ‘crazy cat lady.’ It’s my narrative, and I like it.

It all started when my neighbor’s three-year-old son used his dad’s phone to order eight bags of dry cat food from Walmart.

The bags of cat food were thirty pounds each, and they didn’t have cats.

Walmart credited my neighbors bank account and told him that he didn’t need to return all the food, so he passed them out around the complex to tenants who did.

Unfortunately, my well-cared-for cats rejected cold-shouldered this particular food brand, and I had thirty pounds of it sitting in my laundry room.

I didn’t want to throw the cat food away.

I had seen a few stray cats run around my apartment complex throughout the six months I had lived here. My cat food supply slowly dwindled down scoop by scoop. By the time I could see the bottom of the thirty-pound bag, all the feral cats in the neighborhood knew where the gettin’ was good.

I couldn’t stop feeding them, even if my landlord told me not to.

Come on, the kids and I named them all.

They are a part of the family now.

Thank you for reading! ❤

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This post was previously published on MEDIUM.COM.

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