Don't tempt me with a good time | Everybody needs a cat

As luxurious and eclectic as the life of a working writer may appear, let me assure you there are easier ways to earn a living. There are easier things than spending decades honing an artistic craft only to see it printed beside the verbal coleslaw of actual news stories, then ceremoniously buried in a compost bin to grow prize-winning tomatoes. There are easier things than being a reporter and living in the public eye while every man, woman and especially retired gentleman with too much free time believes it his sacred civic duty to inform you what you ought to be writing about. There are easier things.

In many ways, it still beats the intellectually violent orgy that is a master's program, and both rank just beneath the slow erosion of our so-called democratic republic on my personal list of "Ways of Being Thoroughly Ruined While Pretending You're Having a Wonderful Time."

Still, as they taught me at Mission View Elementary School, one must always find a way to turn a frown upside down. During graduate school, I accomplished this by adopting a 3-year-old feline companion named Gertrude Stein. And dear reader, I do not exaggerate when I tell you the cat truly is the great American modernist reincarnated. She enters a room with the confidence of someone who has already read everyone else's thoughts and found them stylistically disappointing.

She is brilliant, tyrannical and impossibly sweet. Many an evening has been spent with the little floof sprawled across my chest, restricting my ability to breathe with the casual entitlement of European aristocracy. I love her dearly, and if you believe you possess a superior cat, I regret to inform you this matter can only be resolved through pistols at dawn.

Unfortunately, when I moved back to Wenatchee, my mother, in one of her more controversial acts of statesmanship, acclimated Gertrude to the outdoor life and then insisted it would be cruel to return her to indoor living in my current abode.

All of which is to say: I missed having a cat terribly. And amid the assorted indignities of adulthood, journalism and rent payments, I began considering another adoption.

My roommate, the long-suffering and deeply patient Maddy Atwood, had grown tired of hearing me discuss the matter. Naturally, I solved this by adopting one without informing her.

Scrolling through the Wenatchee Valley Humane Society website, I saw kitten after kitten until suddenly - there he was. A massive, long-haired 9-year-old tomcat the color of whipped cream left too long in the sun. Magnificent. Ancient. Judgmental. I knew immediately he belonged to me.

At the time, his name was Falkor, which suited him rather well: old, giant, white and vaguely mystical. Our first meeting, however, did not go smoothly. Shelter staff explained he had recently seen another cat and was in no mood for diplomacy. They informed me he disliked children and other cats (on the first point, I found we shared a philosophical alignment) and that he had already been adopted and returned twice.

I left uncertain.

But then the thought lingered: it was kitten season, and elderly cats are too often treated the way Hollywood treats actresses over 40. Disposable. I began constructing tragic backstories for him in my head. Surely he had once belonged to an elderly widow who either passed away or moved into assisted living. Surely some chaotic family with sticky-fingered children had taken him in next, only for him to conclude, quite reasonably, that domestic life among the young was intolerable. What he needed, clearly, was a quiet kingdom and a devoted servant.

So I returned two days later, armed with the essentials of feline cohabitation: litter, food and enough toys to simulate emotional stability.

That was when I learned he is mostly deaf and must remain indoors.

Perfect.

Maddy discovered the arrangement a few days later when I left for an event and the beast wandered directly into her room like a landlord inspecting the premises. They are still acclimating, though I suspect he may prefer her to me. I am, after all, the one who insists upon brushing him, which he greets with hissing, and snuggling him against his will, which he also greets with hissing. Ours is a relationship built on mutual misunderstanding and reluctant affection.

I have also changed his name. Falkor is charming enough, but I firmly believe cats deserve proper names, preferably those belonging to dead literary figures.

And really, the evidence was overwhelming: he is dramatic, ghostly pale, nocturnal, vain beyond reason, and clearly prefers the social company of women and pillow company of men. Thus, his new name is Truman Capote. Not that it matters much to him, given the deafness, but one must maintain standards.

What I truly wished to tell you about, however, was something I discovered during the adoption process: the Share the Love program. When you adopt an animal - ideally a cat, because life is already exhausting enough without a dog demanding emotional validation every 14 minutes - you receive discounts and deals from local pet stores to help settle your new companion into civilized society.

I have yet to visit Petco because, like many Wenatchee residents, I regard crossing the bridge as an expedition requiring strategic planning and possibly provisions. But at Firehouse Pet Shop, I received a free bag of food, free litter, treats, discounts on toys and furniture, and enough assorted savings to briefly make me believe adulthood could be manageable.

Naturally, while there, I also purchased a water fountain and a catnip-infused scratching post. Truman Capote remains undecided on these improvements, though we are currently negotiating the possible acquisition of a cat tree or one of those absurd little window hammocks designed to let cats surveil the neighborhood like retired dictators.

In short, dear reader, you should adopt a cat - even if you already have one, unless yours is similarly committed to absolute monarchy. Everyone needs a cat in their life. Even the aggressively masculine men who insist they are "dog people" are, in truth, often desperate closet cat enthusiasts. They simply lack the emotional fortitude to admit it until they are found reclining in front of the television, watching a Taylor Sheridan series with a purring cat asleep in their lap and the expression of a man who has accidentally discovered joy.

You can see all the adoptable pets at the Wenatchee Valley Humane Society by visiting wenatcheehumane.org

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