How I Got Through This
This Year, I Became a Cat Guy
His name is Alfie, he is 16 years old, and he is my whole world
Alfie is a picky eater. Unless you’ve got a tuna-and-chicken bisque on hand — and not just any bisque, it’s got to be a specific senior-branded bisque made by Hartz Delectables — he won’t give a shit what you’ve put in his bowl. I learned this lesson the hard way. Over the last few months, I have spent close to $200 on different brands and flavors of cat food, always to no avail. Any time I’ve tried a divergence, he’ll simply perch next to his food bowl and glare at me through cloudy narrowed eyes. The message is clear — don’t get cute.
I met Alfie about a year and a half ago when my girlfriend and I started dating. He was 15 at the time, and not even his plush white-and-gray coat could hide how thin and sick he was. Just a few months after our meeting, Alfie was diagnosed with stomach cancer and remains on chemo to this day. He’s still kicking though, and he’s spent the last eight months living with my girlfriend and me in Northeast Pennsylvania, where I grew up and where we moved in March just as the death toll was starting to rise. After my girlfriend, I’ve probably interacted the most with Alfie — Alfonzo if we’re being formal, though I also call him Alfo, Alfster, Fonz, Fonzy, and, inexplicably…
