Can’t Own a Cat

And Other Life Lessons

Can’t own a cat seems like an unfair assessment since owning is part of the natural order. But as with every relationship, owning may not be the right word. With clarity, we might understand ourselves and each other better.

As I sat on my chair attempting to do what I thought was important stuff, our newest kitten, Katrina, decided that her concerns were paramount—first attack my pens, then proceed to eat my computer. To say that we had opposing priorities would be putting it mildly.

I have no idea why I accept Mission Impossible when I take in a stray animal. It should be quite clear to me, after all these years, that I have never owned an animal in my life. Even the chickens had minds of their own. Dogs do tend toward the sloppy servant category, but even they can get in a snit and decide that they’ll run away to the neighbors and then promptly bring a couple of friends home for free snacks.

The irony about “owning” animals is much the same as the irony of owning a home. The home I must repair endlessly. The home that needs fresh paint and constant landscaping, or it will be swamped by overgrown Rose of Sharon. The home where snakes slither into holes meant for electric conduits, leading water right into the basement.

And don’t get me started on “owning” a car. Even if I could buy new, which I would never do because I’d rather ski over a volcano than take an expensive vehicle on dangerous roads, all automobiles need constant upkeep, devout prayers, and TLC to run well.

The deception that owning things, animals, positions, places, or even relationships has led me into a variety of unhappy situations. As a kid, I thought owning the right jeans would make me appealing. Turns out that appealing is what goes into the jeans, shirt, shoes, and whatever apparel one happens to buy. Ask the ladies of the seventeenth-century French court. Clothes do not own a person, but they can sell you quick enough, if you’re not careful.

Wearing clothes that serve me as I serve my house, my critters, and my family had served me well. Redundancy can help make a point.

A life of service is not the same thing as a life of servitude. Ask my kitten. She just got sent to time-out for attempting to jump on the dog’s head. There’s a host of touchy subtext in the words “owning” and “serving,” but my will to live blossoms under the tutelage of a serving-guardian spirit.

To my understanding, guardianship means that I do what I can to bring out the best in others. That doesn’t mean that I give my critters everything they want. My house gets the care it needs, but I may let the bushes grow wild for a season while I wrestle the steps into proper alignment. Even in my relationships with family, friends, and community members, I do what I can, as best I can, without the burden of “ownership.” I don’t own people or relationships, and they don’t own me.

Guardianship allows me the freedom to say no to an irresponsible request or refuse the role someone might think I should play. It’s about limits and boundaries, even while allowing a hyperactive kitten to explore the cupboards. It means that I maintain regular oil changes for the old car, knowing full well that rust is creeping up around the edges as it rolls over the 200,000-mile mark. The house mortgage is paid, and I keep up with the taxes and repairs, but I don’t consider it mine forever. It’s my home but not my final destination.

A guardian accepts the frailties, imperfections, and limitations of others without being unduly disturbed. Guardians with a will to serve don’t live in a fantasy world.

Granted, saying that I “don’t own” what is under my care and responsibility seems like splitting hairs, but the deeper meaning saves my sanity. I may own my house and car legally, but I also realize that I am traveling through on this journey called life.

This good old house will someday belong to another; I hope someone who will love it as much as I do. The car will be lucky to see another year. As for the kitten, well, she thinks she owns me. And for the time being, I can accept the misconception. She’s just a baby yet. Time and experience will teach her what sixty years have taught me—owning isn’t the joy of my life. Loving is.