SPEAK
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STOCKHOLM SYNDROME
The twisted tale of my captivity - to a cat. // EMILY JOHNSON
Since the first day I encountered Lola Marie, my life has stunk—of cat crap Junior year of high school, my best friend and boyfriend collaborated to give me the gift that keeps on taking
a cat. I was taking a nap in our living room when suddenly I saw them creeping around the corner with the devil in kitten's clothing. Her true identity did not reveal itself to me until, in transit between my friend's hands and mine, she had explosive diarrhea all over my beloved napping nook — the couch, the floor, the throw pillows and even my blanket. Damage control was the highest priority as she cowered in the corner like an oversized, black-and-white spotted dustbunny. But as soon as I erased the look and stench of digested cat food from the living room furnishings, all that remained was this fragile little creature that suddenly depended on me for survival. How could I not love her? Oh, let me count the ways.
Eat, sleep, excrete and repeat — one, two, three, four. From Day One, Lola established that is all she knew how to do. Thanks to the amazing inconvenience with which she performs her three main functions, her name has become a four-letter word in my family – and that name is not Lola.
For starters, she has a stunning ability to make any surface a toilet. She has ruined many carpets, mattresses, items of clothing and pillowcases. One morning I awoke with my sweatshirt sleeve in a steaming pile of poo, which tested on my pillow mere inches from my head. I learned quickly that life with a domesticated animal is not for the weak at heart, or stomach.
Lola's three food groups of choice are cat food, dairy and tuna. Never again during her lifetime will I open a can of anything - black olives, pumpkin purce; creamed corn - without inciting a full-on freak out, because Lola is a firm believer that only fish comes in a can. Neither can I eat cereal or ice cream peacefully in her presence, because she inevitably creeps over my shoulder and sticks her little pink tongue out to lap up whatever is in my bowl. And it's certainly not because she isn't well fed; her tummy swings back and forth in front of her hind legs when she walks. And the second her food bowl is empty, she tells me - first by feigning affection, crawling all over me and rubbing her face on my chin, putting even (an expression of love she typically reserves for her cat chow). But after a while, she realizes I starve her to make her nice. Then the crying ensues and she is underfoot every step I take until I show her the kibble. Then, when she has eaten that entire bowl and thrown it
back up, or at least had her fill, she finds a nice pile of clothes or a square of sunlight on the carpet and goes to sleep to recover from her difficult ordeal.
Lola lies around all day, her eyes sleepily halfclosed and her big white belly moving quietly up and down, until it becomes absolutely necessary to either defecate on something or go in search of sustenance. And when she does gather the strength to lift herself from her resting place, she is sure to leave behind a heavy coating of fur. I often quarantine her in the bathroom when I am sleeping or away, because she cannot be trusted to use her litter box like a civilized animal. And instead of respecting the rest of the world's need to rest, the selfish snob spends nighttime hours pawing at the door and crying like a tortured soul in solitary confinement. But she is not the prisoner in this relationship.
After our first year together, I began planning for college, and my immediate plan did not include Lola because student housing does not allow animals. When I moved out, my father reluctantly spared her life by allowing her to remain under his roof. I made sure she had an ample supply of food and litter and packed up the rest of my life for Lawrence with less regret than one would expect when parting from a pet because college meant freedom from, among other things, the demon animal that had done everything in her power to make my life hell.
With that freedom came a strange void; like a long time hostage finally set free, I felt oddly alone without the presence of my captor. Of course, as a college freshman, I expected to be homesick. But so many nights as I was lying in bed, I found that I missed sleeping with a living fur hat on. When I was sad, forcing Lola to cuddle with me always made me feel better, no matter how much she resisted. I missed burying my face in her big, soft belly and breathing in her kitty smell. I've heard that absence makes the heart grow fonder and somehow, over time and distance, the little manipulator had connived her way into my heart.
Last year Lola and I moved into our first apartment together. She is just as much of a pain in the ass as ever, but she is my pain in the ass, and I love her despite it. She may be selfish and entitled and possess no redeeming qualities, but she is also soft and adorable and she needs me. She needs me for food and shelter and chin scratching, but I also give her something no one else can; Love. No one except for her mother could love such a spawn of Satan, and somehow I do. Jp
Photo by Tanner Grubbs
Cat lady. Writer Emily Johnson with her cat, Lola. Lola has been hell to live with but Emily still loves her — just like a mother should
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