I used to have a complicated relationship with the term cat lady.
Before Bean came into my life, my family was exclusively dog people (well one dog, two guineapigs and many, many goldfish). I was, for all labelling purposes, a dog person. Similar to a golden retriever, I liked to think of myself as athletic, energetic and outgoing.
For truth-telling purposes though, I am not all of those things, at least not all the time, and I have never even owned a golden retriever.
Traditionally, being a cat lady means living in a house that always smells of Fancy Feast tinned food and not owning a single piece of clothing devoid of faux fur. Deeper than that, it’s an insult reserved for single older women – whatever older means these days – to dismiss them for not fitting the patriarchal expectations of partnership upheld by people like Andrew Tate, our old Cosmopolitan magazines and the darkest corners of Reddit.
Overall, the term is neither athletic, energetic nor outgoing, and it definitely isn’t fun or sexy.
So where does that leave me and Bean?
It was a chilly day in December and I, a youthful 21-year-old who had packed at least one nice bra for my month-long trip to Tokyo, was spending my Thursday night in one of Japan’s famous cat cafés in Harajuku. Bean was back home in Australia, probably asleep, definitely under my bed.
A part of me felt like I was supposed to be dancing in some underground club or bar-hopping my way through Golden Gai, at the very least making the most of both my youth and my time in a city that seems to come to life once the sun goes down – unlike my hometown of Meanjin/Brisbane, which puts itself to bed around 9pm.
Instead, I was pspspspsing to a ginger tabby in a futile attempt to make my “vibe” approachable enough so I could avoid spending ¥500 on cat food. Around me were 14 other felines of varying breeds, colours and hair lengths lounging, while humans like myself were wandering around trying to get some face time with them.
I had only been in Japan for two weeks before the homesickness kicked in. There had been twinges here and there – the slight aches and pains that came with travelling 7,243 km away from the familiarity of home. Overall, this longing had visited like a well-meaning ghost – brief and without much lasting impression, ‘A Christmas Carol’ style (the Barbie version). This day though, the longing came at with a vengeance – ‘A Christmas Carol’ style (the scary 2009 Jim Carey version).
Tokyo is one of the largest cities on Earth, yet somehow despite its population of over 37 million people, the packed streets of Shibuya can still manage to feel lonely. Even the peak-hour train rides filled to the brim with passengers made me feel isolated. Several people would touch me on all sides and the air within the cart felt like it was disappearing, yet no well-meaning sorry or knowing smiles addressing the current predicament were ever shared.
I know it’s not uncool to miss your mum while travelling, but admitting to a group of fellow travellers at your guesthouse somehow comes with the connotation that maybe you just can’t “hack it” and perhaps shouldn’t have travelled at all. Missing a pet, however, seems more relatable… more digestible to the masses.
The thing was I really did miss Bean too.
Mum and I adopted her a year ago when she was more fluff that body: big green eyes staring out between tufts of black fur, a penchant for cuddles and a habit of falling asleep under my bed. She’s the love of my life even as she swings between wanting to spend every waking second with me and wanting nothing to do with me. For a respectable amount of time, she was my lock screen – until a friend accused of me being a cat lady.
As I looked around my current situation – the cat-themed drinks, the cat-themed decor and several bodies of fur splayed across them – I couldn’t help but think that maybe they were right.
Some of the characters in the café fit the cat lady mould and others did not. A young girl in a Hello Kitty-themed jumper giggled while a medium-haired grey Persian ate from her treat container. Cat girl? A man dressed in business attire and glasses sat still while a half-ginger munchkin nestled into his lap – no food required. Cat man?
I wanted to know what had brought them here. Were they also feeling a little lonely? Did their apartments not allow pets? Was their partner allergic to fur?
Between the language barrier and the simple fact that it was probably rude of me to ask, I kept the questions at bay. I was also shoving down the urge to take photos, afraid that too many pics would be the final nail in the coffin that certified my cat lady qualities.
As our prescribed thirty minutes drew to a close, I looked across the café and noticed a lon-haired tabby staring out the floor-to-ceiling windows: its furry face reflected in the neon lights and ever-changing billboards of Harajuku that stared back. It looked depressed.
Feel less good about my choice, a hundred thoughts ran through my head. Did they let these cats leave? Did they like the owners? Did they have parents they were missing at home but couldn’t tell their cat friends about for fear of being judged?
I reminded myself of where I’d found it in the first place: ‘7 Pawsome Ethical Cat Cafés you should check out in Tokyo’, and yet I couldn’t stop thinking about that tabby.
I thought about her during the peak-hour train ride squished between passengers, I thought about her while taking off my shoes and I thought about her when I hopped into bed that night.
When I could think about it no more, I gave in and facetimed my mum, who answered the call with Bean in her arms. I cried for the first time in weeks. After the tears, I realised that I probably am a cat lady after all – and it isn’t even such a bad thing.