I Love You, Cat

Based on a true story.

Caution: if you’re a dog person, this post is not for you.

It was the summer Super Soaker 50 was released. No more trigger finger — now you had a forceful jet stream of water. This moment was equivalent to Ralphie vying for the Red Ryder BB gun from Higbee’s.

In Modesto, 1991, for the Super Soaker it was Target. All the manipulation needed by a 9-year-old with no money — plus his little brother, 22 months his junior — to convince their middle-class mom, in the middle of a Central Valley heat wave, to purchase what was, up until that moment, the most expensive and advanced water gun, was going to be a challenge.

What happened next would change the course of many lives over the next two decades — and arguably, a lifetime.

By this time in late June, school had been out for weeks. Like any good parent, the reality of kids at home nonstop was starting to wear. Especially two kids who wanted Super Soakers to dominate the neighborhood water fights alongside the Crocodile Mile and sprinklers. Even seeing an old-school water gun at the grocery store was insulting.

My brother and I got lucky: my birthday in late June provided the opening to beg, sacrifice, and make a deal for the Super Soaker. The classic deal any kid first learns is, I’ll do all my chores. When that doesn’t work, the second is, It’s not for me, it’s for my brother. Seven out of ten times, some combination of scheming together and blending the two works better — it gets the parents’ attention.

So as my birthday approached, on a seemingly random Tuesday in the heat of summer, we drove to Target. The wafting smell of asphalt, citrus in the valley, and Target are still fully baked into my nostril memory.

As we approached the automated doors, a big white box sat in a planter. One of the Valley’s farmer-looking types was giving away kittens. We peered into that well-used box and into the eyes of four kittens — and to say lightning, or the flash of life, came over both my brother and me would be an understatement.

We reached in and each scooped one up. Looking into those barely two-month-old eyes, we were transfixed, already daydreaming of the adventures the four of us would have — endless sleepovers, forts, everything. The last thing on our minds was a Super Soaker 50.

Before the moment was over, my mom broke the fever dream and whisked us inside. The first words out of our mouths were, “But Mom, they were free.” Looking back, obviously my mom knew no cat is free.

In those days, kids could roam Target, and for a split second, not finding your parent induced a slight panic. In our case, we didn’t even look for Super Soakers — instead, we clung to our mom, crying for the two brother kittens we had just bonded with not even 60 seconds earlier.

There is nothing a kid can do in that moment except have a total meltdown. And we did — in unison, in solidarity. I know the stages of grief, and this was similar: we went from cordial, rational (for a 9- and 7-year-old) to crying, to tantrum, and back and forth for the entire Target visit — not once mentioning Super Soakers, except for my mom now insisting we could get two Super Soakers and no kittens.

We wanted kittens. Fuck Super Soakers.

At checkout, with our total loss of emotional regulation, we walked through the front doors, past the white box, and into the Dodge Caravan minivan. My mom did not budge. Then — and I forget who said it — one of us let out the words that changed our DNA: “Mom, they are brothers, like us. We have to give them a home.”

That might have been the first time my mom understood not only was one cat in play, but two. And maybe — just maybe — she felt, in that split moment of the cosmos, that some part of this was destiny.

As we pulled out of the parking space, she drove to the front, rolled down her window, and told us over her shoulder, “Go get the brothers.”

We hopped out like a SWAT team, ran over to the box, and there were our brothers. We picked them up. The farmer looked over at my mom approvingly and, without words, allowed us to carry our two brothers with fur back to the Caravan.

With the sliding door closed, Mom turned around and said, “They’re cute. What are their names?”

As I remember — and what I assume any kid would name their first cat — I shouted “Whiskers.” My brother, who had just received a Gremlins stuffed animal for his birthday in April, excitedly yelled “Gizmo.”

The drive home was pure joy, pure wonder — until my mom broke the mood: “Your dad is going to go crazy.”

He didn’t — surprisingly — but he did insist they would be outside cats.

That didn’t stop us from sneaking them inside every night into our rooms.

Whiskers, Gizmo, my brother, and I spent the remaining years of elementary school in Modesto until one day my dad came home and said, “We’re moving to Washington State.”

We called a “rally” — a childhood term we stole from the TV show Ghostwriter. We let Whiskers and Gizmo know that we were all moving.

As part of the move, Whiskers and Gizmo would stay at Kitty Kat Hilton (yes, that was the name) while we got settled. We would visit them until we had a permanent place.

Whiskers and Gizmo hated the Hilton. My brother and I hated seeing them behind a cage. I’m sure the caretakers were nice, but it felt wrong.

It was the summer before I entered 7th grade, my brother 5th, when we moved into the corporate-appointed apartment in the town of Kennewick, Washington.

After a few weeks, we brought Whiskers and Gizmo to the apartment.

One day, Whiskers disappeared.

The thing you have to know about this apartment complex is that it bordered a large grocery store, a strip mall with a Blockbuster, and the busiest intersection in town. Whiskers being gone felt like a death sentence.

After the second night, my brother and I talked to Gizmo. “We can’t find Whiskers,” we told him. Gizmo knew.

We opened the back sliding door, and Gizmo ran out — seemingly to find Whiskers.

Several hours later, Gizmo returned. Not even a minute later, Whiskers walked in behind him.

This would not be the last time Whiskers disappeared.

Right before the school year started, my parents bought a house in a subdivision in Richland, Washington.

That’s where we spent our most formative teenage years — angst, girls, lifelong friendships, and memories. Whiskers and Gizmo were central to all of it.

There was the time my brother and I got drunk off tequila and milk in the backyard. (We thought the milk would cut the taste of tequila.) That was also the first time we ever got drunk — and hungover. Whiskers and Gizmo looked at us like, What the fuck did you guys do? They comforted us the next morning, staying close as we shuffled between our beds and the bathroom, vomiting and swearing off alcohol forever.

There was the time I got rejected by a girl on the school bus — innocently enough — but I took it like the end of the world. I talked to Whiskers for hours, laughing, crying, asking, Am I ugly? A nerd? Whiskers let me know I was the best friend anyone could ask for.

Another time, my brother and I came home very late from a Third Eye Blind concert. My parents were furious — 11th grade for me, 9th for my brother — that we would show up at midnight with no call or warning. Cell phones weren’t in every teenager’s hand in 1998.

After the lecture and subsequent grounding, we went upstairs. Whiskers and Gizmo were waiting for us. If I told you they were more upset than my parents, I wouldn’t be exaggerating. They were visibly furious — actually marching, not walking, around the room like they were telling us how badly we’d worried everyone.

My mom and I used to secretly steal Whiskers from each other. She’s a night owl, so while I went to bed early for school, she would sneak into my room and take him. Sometimes I’d catch her in the middle of the night, and she’d offer me $5 or $10 to keep him. On occasion, I’d “whore” Whiskers out.

By the year 2000, I was off to college. Whiskers stayed behind with Gizmo. I would regularly call home to check on them. There was no FaceTime.

When I got my first college girlfriend — the one I actually brought home — I rented a Mustang convertible and drove the two hours back to Richland so she could meet my family. Three brothers.

By this point, she already knew I was a cat guy. The way I talked about Whiskers and Gizmo — much of what you’ve just read — she’d already heard.

When we walked in, Whiskers and Gizmo were there. I loved them so much.

Later that evening, my brother mentioned Whiskers was wheezing. While Whiskers had always been a plus-size cat, I brushed it off.

An hour later, he started laying weirdly. My new girlfriend and I drove him to the emergency vet.

They ran tests and brought out a small vial of pink fluid, explaining that his lungs were filling up with liquid and he would die. To say I didn’t believe it — or was in shock — would be an understatement.

I called the rest of the family, and they all rushed over.

After several more hours, the vets, with pressure from my dad, said, “Mark, you need to make the decision.”

The thought of Whiskers suffering killed me. I asked to see him.

He was laying on the cold metal table, looking okay — surprisingly — but something told me, he told me, he was not. So, with one last hug, kiss, and nuzzle (touching noses), I nodded to the vet tech, and they put him to sleep.

I was hysterical, in front of this new girlfriend.

The pain you feel when the innocent life of a cat passes — especially when no words are ever spoken, the bond existing entirely in shared moments and imagination — is different from losing a human.

Telling Gizmo was even harder. He looked for Whiskers and never got to say goodbye. My brother comforted him.

Inevitably, I had to return to college.

A month later, I came home for a routine visit.

Gizmo was huge — and angry. My brother said that after Whiskers died, Gizmo changed. He dealt with grief on his own while life seemingly moved forward.

Gizmo even hissed at me.

A year later, my brother joined me in college, and Gizmo stayed behind.

One day, while wandering through a pet shop, we saw two brother kittens and got them. Diego and Boots.

Having two cats in college was hard, so we decided to take them to my parents’ house. Maybe having a friend would help Gizmo.

If you’re a cat person, you know this is a gamble.

We lost.

Gizmo hated Diego and Boots. Diego even looked like Whiskers.

After a couple of weeks, Boots wandered off one day and never returned. Over the next several years, a cat resembling Boots would come by the house. We never knew for sure if it was him, but we played along.

After a call with our parents, my brother and I decided to bring Gizmo to college with us.

To say I was nervous to have Gizmo as a roommate would be an understatement. But when he showed up, he was happy — happy to be with my brother and me again.

The next two years before graduating felt like we’d gone back in time. We were all together, like the early days. Gizmo was a great roommate — wise beyond his years.

He even saw my brother and me win student body president and vice president of our university at the same time.

I graduated college and moved to Seattle. Gizmo stayed with my brother. I thought that once he graduated, they might come to Seattle.

They didn’t. Instead, they moved back to Richland — roommates down the street from our childhood home.

As my business grew, I stopped visiting Richland as often. Gizmo began having health issues, and my brother kept a watchful eye on him.

I’d always ask my brother to come to Seattle, and while he said he’d love to, he couldn’t leave Gizmo. If you’ve ever had a sick family member, you understand.

After another year or so, with Gizmo beyond frail, my brother called me and said, “It’s time.” I knew exactly what he meant.

A few hours later, he made the final trip to the vet. I didn’t attend Gizmo’s makeshift funeral, but my brother told me it was peaceful.

He put Gizmo’s lifeless body and his favorite toys in a plastic container and buried him. I said, “WTF? He’s going to be perfectly preserved for millennia.” We both laughed. You can’t judge people in that emotional state.

Not even a month later, my brother moved to Seattle. A year after that, Diego and my parents moved to Seattle as well. (The ghost of Boots stopped showing up.)

About a decade later, Diego got old, too. Eventually, the decision was made.

We were all there — my brother, his wife, my college girlfriend-now-wife, my parents — as we saw Diego off. My dad cried especially hard for him, which he hadn’t for Whiskers, Gizmo, or the disappearance of Boots.

My wife had a cat named Jack, who passed during the pandemic. He’d seen us through our 20s and 30s — from dating, to building our business, to getting married.

The funny thing about Jack was his coloring: white with brown spots. The previous owner — he was a rescue — had called him Zorro before they moved cross-country and chose to take the dog, not Zorro. Jack became part of our family instead.

When he died, my wife and I grieved for six months before my sister-in-law said, “There’s a cat that looks like Jack named Jasper who’s looking for a home.” (Also a rescue.)

We were out at a restaurant when she sent us his info. In our group chat, we started using the hashtag #BringJasperHome.

Since he appeared on a rescue list with dogs — my sister-in-law rescues dogs from kill shelters on the West Coast and in Texas — getting Jasper was a process.

A week later, she let us know he was on the transport coming from Fresno, California.

We kept hearing: big boy, friendly, might be seven years old. We genuinely didn’t know what to expect.

When he finally arrived in Washington and came into our care, he lived in the closet for three months.

There were signs he would come around, but you can never be too sure with a cat. One clue: I’d pull him out of the closet and put him on the bed. He’d stay there for a long while, enjoying his butt scratched (never had a cat like his butt scratched so much) until he’d eventually duck back into the closet.

Post-pandemic, the world became more remote with work, and we started — my parents, my wife, and I — jet-setting between Seattle and Arizona.

We didn’t want to leave Jasper behind, so we decided to take him with us.

It was on one of those trips that he fully melted — trusted — and became the loving cat he is today. It could also be that he flies first class or gets the middle seat.

Jasper looks like Jack. Jack’s bond with my wife reminded me of Whiskers. Diego was, admittedly, the respawn of Whiskers — something I refused to believe until the end, even though my brother insisted on it from day one.

Gizmo was my brother’s best friend, I think even to this day.

So when Jasper jumped on my chest this morning and looked me dead in the eyes, I didn’t just say “I love you, cat.”

I was saying it to all of them — Whiskers, Gizmo, Diego, Jack — the brothers who’ve been with me my whole life, in every form they’ve returned.