Last week, Heidi and I adopted a cat. Her name is Birdie, and she is a very polite kitty who loves to flop and gnaw on cardboard. She’s six and a half pounds, her tail is especially curly, and she has a lot to say. I’m really enjoying having her around.
There were a lot of things about the process of adoption that surprised me. It took a little while, but not as long as I expected. The screening process was minimal, too. I went in expecting to have to prove how good of a cat owner I would be, but I came away wondering why they didn’t ask me more questions. There were some small formalities, of course, but for the most part they reviewed her medical records, congratulated us, and then sent us off with an animal in a box. I mean, it was a nice box, but still.
We had been talking about adopting cats for years, and for various reasons kept delaying the inevitable, so it felt almost surreal that it was finally happening. It’s a ten-plus year commitment, and there are so many things you have to set up or learn about: food, water, litter, toys, grooming, vet appointments; and I have resolved to be a great—nay, an expert cat parent.
When my family adopted our beloved lab mix, Maizey, my dad spent several months dedicated to training her as a puppy, and I saw that hard work pay off in real time as Maizey grew into a (mostly) well-behaved, adorably gentle dog who blessed our family with her sweet presence for many years. I know dogs tend to be a little higher maintenance than cats, but it was not lost on me that getting a pet is a big deal, and you have to take it seriously.
Yet, adopting Birdie really didn’t feel like a big deal to the people at the shelter. Of course it didn’t, because the lovely people working there probably do this dozens of times every day. Animals are coming and going constantly, so it wouldn’t make sense for it to be too elaborate. Nevertheless, I couldn’t help but feel like there should have been more ceremony about it, or some kind of concrete ritual. I don’t know what, exactly. Ribbons, maybe? A song? We’re taking an entire new creature into our care, and all it took was a chunk of money and a couple of signatures.
Almost exactly two years ago, I was living at home when we said goodbye to Maizey for the last time, after fourteen wonderful years of her life. We knew it was coming for a while beforehand, and we were able to spend our last moments together with her with weight and intention. We comforted her, we cried together, we grieved, we said our goodbyes. Maizey was as much a part of the family as anyone else, and it was important to give her passing a solemn ceremony, informal as it may have been. It was deeply sad, and it was profoundly good.
When something significant in your life comes to an end, you have the privilege of hindsight. Looking back, you know how important something was, and you can apportion it all the necessary reflection in whatever way you choose. That’s why funerals exist.
But when you’re at the beginning of something significant, you don’t always know it. You can’t know it, really. You realize it later, of course, and you can see those first moments in a new light. But when you first meet someone special, or you start a new hobby, or you make some small habitual change in your life, it’s impossible to know how it’s going to turn out, even if you have such dedicated plans. Maybe that’s why shelter people don’t make a big deal out of adopting a cat. For all they know, you’ll be back in two weeks to return the poor thing for being “too needy” or something.
Still, I don’t think that’s a good enough reason not to have some sort of ritual about it. I can’t know what’s going to happen in the future, but, in Birdie’s case, I’m hoping for a long feline lifetime of joy, comfort, and companionship. For that reason, this has to be the main tone of the ceremony, I think. Not certainty, but hope. Lord knows we could use a little extra hope right now.
There are some rituals that are like this already, actually. Marriage is one, and so is baptism. I suppose baby showers already exist, too, but we should really have a dedicated pet version. Maybe a few weeks from now, when we pick up a new feline sibling for Birdie, we’ll throw a little housewarming party for the both of them.
Phil Rienstra (they/he) (‘21) studied writing and music, and since graduating has developed a deep interest in labor rights. They currently work at a unionized Starbucks and volunteer with Starbucks Workers United. They’re an amateur chef, a perennial bandana wearer, and an Enneagram 4. He lives in St. Paul with his spouse, Heidi.
