The Cat Is Staying 😼 This is Why

Why do we hold on to things that make no sense?

There are things in our homes that we cherish and hold tightly to because of the affection we have for the person who gave us the thing. 

Or because of the emotion we attach to the event that caused the thing to come into our life. 

Or because somebody spent a lot of money on it. 

Or because we believe that the thing we are now in possession of will someday be worth a lot of money to someone else.

And then.

There are things in our homes that contain all the sentimental value of a carton of rancid cottage cheese. 

And even though it makes absolutely no sense, we cherish them anyway.  

Because they tell us we are home.

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The summer I was 10, my fourth grade teacher randomly gifted me a life-sized porcelain cat when she retired and moved to Florida.  

My grandmother and my teacher were friends.  Which is how I ended up at Mrs. Fox’s house when she was doing the traditional “I am moving to a trailer park in 17 hours and what the heck am I going to do with a lifetime's accumulation of stuff” spiral of downsizing doom.  

I would like to think that there was some deep, “you were my favorite student” and “I want you to have this to remember me by” sentiment behind Mrs. Fox’s decision to give me the porcelain cat.  

But that’s not how this went down.  

Mrs. Fox basically shoved it at me and said, “You can stuff your jewelry up inside of it because robbers would never think to look inside a life-size porcelain cat sitting on the windowsill looking out into the world.”

Robbers?

I was 10. 

And also, I didn’t have any jewelry. 

She should have given me some jewelry.  

Like the sparkly costume jewelry my grandma’s friend, Ardelle, gave me when she had a garage sale.  I absolutely kept that crap all hidden up inside the porcelain cat.  Because if a robber ever thought to look inside, I wanted him to squeal with joy from scoring all the sparkly diamonds and then be plummeted to the depths of despair when he went to hock them and they were crap. 

Violence, Macaulay Culkin, is not always the answer.

So that is how a blue and white speckled porcelain cat that is hollow on the inside came to live in my home. 

For 45 years.

This porcelain cat has been with me longer than anything else I own.  Except for the 3 remaining Christmas ornaments that have been on every Christmas tree in my life since I was born.  

I know why I keep the Christmas ornaments. 

There are only 3 of them.  And when I pull them out every year, they remind me of childhood Christmases and all the jingle belling through all the boxes of Queen Anne’s chocolate covered cherries my mom scooped up at the Ayr-Way Store.  This makes me happy.  It is easy to explain the ornaments.

I can’t really explain why I still have the porcelain cat.  

I have no meaningful memories attached to it or to the day I received it.

I don’t look at it and think fondly about Mrs. Fox.  I mean, she did introduce me to Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of Nimh. And taught me that the pioneers ate leftover popcorn with milk poured over it for breakfast like it was Captain Crunch. And I do remember there was a lot of blood when she sliced her entire thumb off one day with the paper cutter.  But, I don’t really have any emotional attachment to her or to anything about fourth grade.   

I also have no Antiques Road Show delusions.  There is no surprise money hiding up inside this cat.

I’m not lying when I say that it’s nothing special.  At all.  It’s just a hunk of feline-shaped clay with a semi-shiny glaze over it.

So why have I kept it for 45 years?  And moved it to each of the 27 different homes I’ve lived in since the cat came into my life?  

The only answer I have is this: Because it feels like home to me. And I can’t imagine a home of mine without it.  

There are people who think that home is where the heart is.  I am not one of these people. 

I do not subscribe to this romantic nonsense.  My heart has been in a lot of different places with a lot of different people.  And not all of those people and places have been “home” to me.     

I take a more practical approach.

For me, home is where you go when you have nowhere to go. 

It’s where you (usually) begin and end your day. 

It’s where you tweeze your eyebrows and wash your stinky sports bras. 

It’s where you keep all of the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies. 

It’s mold in the bathroom.  And potato chips in the bed. 

It’s where you figure out if that’s black rice or mouse poo on the counter.  Work out how to stop a drippy faucet.  And practice curling your hair so it flips just the right amount in just the right direction. 

It’s where you put your feet up and have your breakdowns. 

It’s where you have whispered conversations with people who share your bed in the dark of night. 

It’s where you learn that you are enough. 

Home is where you channel surf.  And let your friends couch surf.  And binge watch episodes of “The 100 Foot Wave.”  And Mad Men. 

It’s where you cry in the shower.  And curse at the internet. And say your holiest prayers. 

It’s holiday lights on Christmas trees and competitive games of Monopoly and Sunday dinners where you burn the garlic bread but nobody cares. 

It’s where you keep your most sparkly jewelry hidden away where the robbers can’t find it. 

And if you’re lucky, home is where you are safe and sound and secure.  And where you know that you are (and have been) loved.

Maybe your heart is also there.  Maybe something else is there.  

For me, I know that I’m home because the porcelain cat is sitting in the living room.  Home is where the cat is.  Which is why I have to keep it.  

Have a great weekend,
Vivian

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