I Hate That F#!%ing Cat!
I was once married to a guy named Kidd who loved cats. My birthday was the day before his, and Kidd was famous for giving great presents. It was hard to compete so most of the time I didn’t try. But one year we went out to lunch on my birthday and afterward wandered into the Cat Shoppe, which led to an idea that was almost brilliant.
The Cat Shoppe had everything a cat-lover could ever want, including the cats themselves, rescued from one unfortunate circumstance or another and up for adoption. For some reason Kidd wanted a white cat. Now, you should know that we already had a black one and two yellow ones. One of them was an old tabby named Lazzo The King. Lazzo had never been handsome but now, advanced in years, he was approaching pathetic. Still, he was the favorite. Lazzo was well-loved.
On this particular birthday in the Cat Shoppe, a white, silky smooth kitten started following Kidd around. He had a distinctive look, mostly white but with a black and grey striped tail. He was very needy. There was an immediate connection. I approached the owner of the store and the conversation went something like this:
“Hi, I'm Hannah. We really like this white kitten. We're cat people.”
“How many cats do you have?”
“Three. All grown.”
“Are they indoor or outdoor cats?”
“They're both.”
“Then you can't have that cat.”
“Why not?!?
“The owner won't allow him to be adopted to a family who will let him outside.”
I was stumped. I’d assumed the shop owner would love to get one cat out of the store to an experienced cat lover. I’d failed a test I didn’t know I was taking.
We left the store and later that night after a couple of drinks, Kidd slurred, "This would have been a perfect day, if only I could have had that cat."
So I devised a plan.
Months earlier Beth, the mother of my children's cousins who used to be married to my ex-husband's brother, moved back to Nashville after being gone for about 18 years. She worked for a company directly across the street from The Cat Shoppe. I called her early the next day and said, “Beth, I need you to do me a favor. I need you to adopt a cat for me.” I went on to tell her the story and explained how for once, I wanted to get Kidd the perfect present. Beth was game.
Beth Rhodes Lewis (left) and Hannah Paramore Breen (right), partners in crime.
She called me back at noon.
“Did you get the cat?” I asked.
“I didn't see him anywhere,” Beth said. She’d had no luck getting the shop owner’s attention, so she’d eventually left.
I said, “Let me do this. I'll call the store, make sure they still have him and set it all up for you. Do you mind trying again?”
I called the store and inquired about the cat. When the owner confirmed the cat was still available, I said, “Great, I’ll be right there. My name is Beth Rhodes.”
My name is not Beth Rhodes.
I called Beth and she said she’d go back in an hour.
A couple hours later, Beth called me, this time a little nonplussed. She had walked into the store and said to the owner, “I'm here to adopt that little white cat.”
“You've never been in my store before today,” the owner replied.
Beth, caught in my lie, took a deep breath and said, “Ok I'll tell you the truth. It was my daughter who called. We just lost our cat to leukemia and we didn't think you would adopt a cat to a teenager. But it's her birthday and I promised her a white cat, and I really want that cat.”
“Well, I can't find him right now and there's paperwork to do,” the owner said. “You’ll have to come back at 5:00.”
The paperwork was an adoption contract, which included a clause saying the previous cat owner and the store owner reserve the right to drop into your home to check on the living conditions of the adopted cat. I'll bet this has never happened, but when you've told lies in order to adopt a stray cat, it can be a little frightening.
Beth left, called me and made me promise I'd take all the heat if we ever violated the cat adoption contract. I swore.
She went back that evening and was rebuffed once again by the shop owner, who told her they’d run out of time and she’d need to come back the next day. By bedtime on Kidd’s birthday we had told four lies and there was still no kitten for a birthday present.
Beth's a trooper, so she headed back the next morning and here is what transpired:
“I’m here to adopt the cat,” Beth said.
“We've got him right here,” the shop owner replied. “Let me go over the contract with you.”
“I'm so excited,” Beth said. “We are all ready. We're going to have him declawed immediately.”
“Then you can't have that cat.”
“What?!”
“The owner won't allow him to be adopted to someone who will declaw him.”
After the sob story of the cat lost to leukemia, Beth had thrown in the declawing for good measure to emphasize they’d be house cats. At this point, Beth was beyond any normal boundaries of patience, having been to the store four times and told five lies.
“OK, fine. We won’t.”
“It states that in the contract.”
“I'll sign it.”
And then the store owner looked at Beth and said, “There are two cats at the Humane Association that are going to be put down today. Both have already been declawed. Why don't you adopt one of those cats?”
Which sent Beth over the edge. “Because I don’t want those cats!” she screamed and pointed. “I want that cat!”
“Well, you can't have just one.”
“FINE! GIVE ME TWO!”
So I ended up with two cats, but the story doesn't end there.
We named that white cat Nippy because he had a terrible habit of biting. He also had gas so bad you couldn’t stand to be near him.
The other cat we called The Little King because he was a carbon copy of Lazzo the King. Within six months, The Little King got a palsy that made one leg stick straight out and tilted his head permanently at an angle. When he would turn his head to look at you, it was like watching an owl. Seriously scary.
Nippy and The Little King brought out the worst in everybody, including me and the other three cats. They completely upset the kitty pecking order. Our two old tabbies moved away almost immediately. Mr. Gatti turned into his worst self, became alpha kitty and tormented the hell out of Nippy and The Little King.
They shredded curtains, sprayed each other and annoyed everyone. Those cats drove me to the very brink until one day I stood up, pointed at Nippy and screamed, “I HATE THAT F#!%ING CAT!”
Both Nippy and The Little King were terrible pets, and they disappeared within a few months. At the end, only Mr. Gatti remained.
I’ve always believed that you shouldn’t give home decor as a present. It turns out that giving a pet as a present is an even worse idea. Nippy turned out to be the worst gift I’d ever given, but I learned something important from him:
If you have to try too hard to get a deal done, you probably shouldn't do the deal.
I learned this in the office at Paramore Digital as well.
“If you have to try too hard to get a deal done, you probably shouldn’t do the deal.”
A couple years later, Maxim, the not-quite-porn but definitely racy magazine, approached my company. My competitive spirit got the best of me when every man in our creative department approached me and said he had moral issues with the content. I had a full-fledged revolt on my hands.
That’s a tough spot for a business owner. Getting good new clients is not easy. And while you want an engaged team, you alone are financially responsible for the business. I fought. I rationalized. I sought advice and I wrestled with myself every night, until one of the guys came to me and said, “You have a company that people tie their moral values to. You can't ask for more dedication than that.” And I realized that while I was the owner and it was my decision, I sell what they do. I also realized that if I pushed this client onto my creative department, I would have to fight every day to get the work done.
Then it hit me, just like it had with that cat: I was trying too hard to get a deal done. We declined the business.
A year later, Maxim was sold and my contact there was out of a job. Later, we had lunch and he said, ”You know, we never could find a company in town to do the work. They all had moral problems with the content.”
There is a crucial point in the new business process when you have to decide where the line is. When you put too much on the line, things get out of balance, and that goes nowhere good. If I’d known that day in The Cat Shoppe what I know now, we might have kept our beloved three cats rather than losing them in a revolt.
But then again, nobody really owns a cat. They just agree to stay with you for a while.
By the way, the cat police never did show up at my house, and it's a good thing. They were outdoor cats from the beginning.