My friend, JT

I’ve had a cat for almost a third of my life. JT¹, my first little buddy, means more to me than the overwhelming majority of relationships in my life. Last month I thought to myself, why haven’t I written about him? He’s at the top of my mind every day.

If this isn’t your thing, feel free to skip this one.

Just a little bean

I got JT back in 2016. I was living in Oakland, CA and it was Folsom weekend in SF. I went to the Oakland SPCA that Saturday, having seen a beautiful Main Coon that was listed on their website. Alas, when I arrived at the shelter he’d already been reserved by someone else. An older cat named Peaches showed me a lot of affection, but her fur was loaded with dander and she hissed menacingly at the other condos when I asked for her to be brought out. Another condo had a pair of bonded kittens that melted my heart, but I wasn’t going to be able to take two home with me.

After two hours, I noticed one condo that I’d thought was empty had a resident. The staff had put a cardboard box inside facing away from the windows for the shelter’s visitors. The occupant, they said, was under-socialized and nervous, and that he probably wouldn’t be keen to see me. I asked them if I could see him anyway.

This is what I saw when they opened the condo. The teeth marks in the cardboard are iconic.

Inside was a tiny orange lump that eyed me carefully. He was the spitting image of the cat I’d grown up with. I cooed at him and let him smell my hand—a lucky move, he’s big on sniffs. Despite the staff’s warning that he might be unfriendly, JT (“Cedric” at the time) immediately started loudly purring in his box.

I told the staff that I’d take him, and while they let me pay the fee, the shelter had closed an hour prior. I woke up at 7AM the next morning (Folsom Sunday) to arrive just as they unlocked the front door. I carried his cardboard carrier back to my Mazda and whisked him home.

When I opened the carrier, he was anxious and scared in my apartment, but I had no intention of menacing him. He disappeared under the TV stand and I let him have the rest of the day to acclimate while I went into the city.

I stretched myself into a pair of yellow and black latex pants and suspenders, drawing sidelong looks on the 19th St Bart platform. I didn’t stay for too long—I was hot and dehydrated. I came across an internet friend on my way out, and we left together to get cleaned up. When he heard I’d just adopted a cat, he volunteered to make the trek to Oakland with me.

After much searching, we found JT in a corner under a side table. He’d curled himself into the smallest ball he could muster, with two grown-ass men laying on their stomachs to fawn over him. It would be a long journey.

The first night, he pooped on the couch.

We had a long talk about what the litter box was for. He never pooped on the couch again, but he did pee on it every night for the first week. One large, lidded litter box later, and he’s not had an accident since.

My greatest F-You moment

I didn’t immediately tell the property management company I got a cat. There was a $500 deposit and $15/mo pet rent, and I figured that I could delay letting them know for at least a few months without issue.

My annual apartment inspection came due two months later, and I visited the leasing office to announce that I’d gotten a cat. When I got there, they informed me that I couldn’t have one. I was shocked, since I’d specifically chosen the apartment for the pet policy. I’d have to change to another building with higher rent and have to move my things. In the end, they couldn’t find an apartment anyway.

Shock turned into despair, then anger. This was all-out war.

---

A few months earlier, I had found out that Stanford Medical Dermatology offered Accutane. As a teen, dermatologists told my parents that my acne was “severe,” but they were unwilling to let me take Accutane for fear that I might suffer rare-but-severe side effects. As I grew up into a pockmarked adult, my acne was a constant nuisance and source of anxiety, and Stanford Medical was the first dermatologist that would even consider this treatment.

One of their conditions was that I needed to see a psychologist every week for the duration of the process. A serious side effect is depression and suicidal thoughts. I’d found my therapist online, and she was absolutely lovely. I chose her as she advertised herself as LGBT-friendly, but her primary focus was as a forensic child psychologist. I’d sit waiting for my appointments next to the room full of toys where I expect she’d ask kids in a sweet, grandmotherly way how they’d been abused.

I suffered from anxiety at the time, but she told me plainly that I wasn’t concerning to her, and we spent our mandated sessions chatting. I helped her install updates on her iMac one time, and she’d tell me how she thought the country was turning down a dark path.

After the dreadful news from my property managers, I asked her for a favor. Prefacing my message that I knew the ADA was abused for emotional support animals, I asked if she’d be willing to help. She was incensed on my behalf and wrote a very professional letter proclaiming JT’s importance to my treatment. I wrote to my property managers:

Hi Faye, I visited the leasing office yesterday and was told that you would be in today. Can you please send me the paperwork that must be completed for an emotional service animal? Thanks.

When you toured our community I asked if you had a dog and you told me no. I do tell everyone I tour we have a dog friendly building, which is 601 William. So I understand you wanted to add a dog to your suite. You would need to stop by and pick up the packet.

Hi Faye, he is a cat, not a dog. I did not have him at the time that I move in, which is why I am asking for this paperwork now. Regardless, the pet restrictions you mentioned do not apply to emotional service animals, so it's moot.

Sorry miss understanding. What is the cats name weight color and type so I create a pet agreement. There is a $500 pet deposit and $15.00 amonh pet rent.

Hi Faye, it's my understanding that emotional service animals are exempt from pet deposits and pet rent. Are you available on the leasing office this morning for me to pick up the paperwork for registering an esa? … I would like to make sure that this is taken care of swiftly.

I stopped in to the leasing office to wordlessly provide a printed copy of my doctor’s ESA letter to the property manager, who did not look me in the eye.

Profile of a Goombas

JT goes by many names, as most beloved pets do:

• Juice (J stands for Justin, which shortens to Juice)

• The Goose

• The Goombas

• Chapakis

• Big Boy

• Little Boy

• Mr Worldwide

• Mr Pants

• Mr 2025

He loves:

• Crinkly plastic (like the kind from the safety seal on a bottle of medicine)

• Rattly mouse toys

• Stinky treats

• Biting things that are pointy

• Being extremely snug

• Playing with the handle end of the fishing pole toys we got for him

  • Playing “stick” as we call it

  • He’s currently the world champion of playing Stick²

• Churu

  • But not knock-off Churu, he refuses to eat it

• His Ripple Rug

• His dads and his uncle Mike

• Licking water out of the shower 🤮

• Eating plants (his “weird salads”) that he immediately throws up

• Squishy spots to sleep

• Being in a good tent

• Big sniffs

• His sister’s dry food

He does not love:

• His dry food

• Bad smells

• Most foods

• When his sister does not bury her poops correctly in the litter box

• When he can see the bottom of his food robot³

• Noises

• Strangers

• The car

• The vet

• Riding in the car to the vet

The bravest California Cat

After a year of being in a long-distance relationship with Max, we decided that I should move from Oakland to Chicago. I fretted over getting JT safely to the midwest.

The day of the move, I got JT drugged up good with some pills from the vet and called my Lyft to the airport. I loaded my luggage into the trunk and JT’s carrier into the back seat. As I settled into the car, the driver’s tiny teacup dog poked its face around the passenger seat to welcome me.

Oh no.

Thankfully the drugs were working and JT stayed quiet, shrunken up in the corner of his carrier. We had an uneventful ride across the Bay Bridge and down the 101. As the driver pulled off the freeway and started up the flyover to SFO, her dog suddenly realized there was another animal in the car. It started yapping furiously and JT recoiled into an even smaller croissant. Thankfully, we were on our way only a few minutes later.

The next six hours of ticketing, security, and JT’s yowling from under the seat in front of me gave me a great deal of empathy for parents flying with children.

When Max and I decided to move from Chicago to Raleigh three years later, it was far smoother. We got gabapentin, which made the (much shorter) flight a lot easier. Moreover, I’d already equipped our new house with the essentials for us to be move-in ready.

As the gabapentin wore off, JT tried to find a hiding place. His first choice was the litter box. Minerva was eager to cautiously explore, but soon needed to relive herself. We managed to capture this iconic photo of Minerva pooping on JT:

A day in the life of Mr Worldwide

I spent a day documenting JT’s movements. Here’s how it went.

I woke up to JT laying on top of me in bed. He loves a thick blanket that’s squishy, and the blanket-duvet combo is perfect for him. He waited patiently for me to get out of bed, following me downstairs to the kitchen.

As I ate my breakfast, he laid half on his Ripple Rug, indicating that he wanted to play. Lately, he’s been eager for me to throw the little green mouse toy I bought him for Christmas, which he stands on his hind legs to try to smack as it flies past.

JT scratches his upright scratching post to tell us that he wants to get a treat. We keep a variety of treats, as he’s a picky eater.

At lunchtime, I find him watching, waiting for birds. The suet feeder is empty, unfortunately, and no birds arrive for him to watch. He’s accompanied by his Lamb Chop toy, who is his faithful birdwatching companion.

As I eat, he climbs up onto the couch and digs at the blankets we keep there. He loves to be underneath blankets that are arranged in a tent. His short, staccato purrs gurgle from under the blanket while I finish my food.

After work, he joins me on top of the blanket to watch TV from the couch. JT loves watching TV, though he doesn’t seem to have any preference for what we watch. If we put Cat TV on (birds, squirrels, etc.) he’s jump up on the TV stand to try to look behind the TV to figure out where the birds go.

Before bed each evening, we do JT’s routine. This involves going to this one weird spot in my office, where he flops down and refuses to make eye contact. At this point, it is my job to pet him until he starts purring. When he’s had enough, he jumps up and starts for my bedroom. He rushes into the bathroom and searches the shower floor for moisture to lick up, then waits patiently for me to brush my teeth.

Finally, he jumps up on the bed and flops down next to me as I fall asleep. Most nights, he stays for a few hours, but sometimes I’ll wake up in the morning to find that he hasn’t moved an inch.

A remarkable little gentleman

I’m reminded frequently of how lucky I am to have JT and how he’s interwoven into nearly every aspect of my adult life. He would sit with his paws across my right hand as I worked on the earliest versions of Pinecast. He snuggled with me while I tried to decide whether I should quit my job at Uber. He helped me get comfy in my new office after I moved to Chicago. He attended me when I was sick with appendicitis and while I grieved the loss of my dad. Consistently he’s been the longest-standing and strongest constant in my life. When I leave town, he’s the thing about home that I miss the most.

He’s nearly a decade old now. Last year the vet nagged me to bring him in for his “senior profile.” I refused, partly because I don’t want to admit to myself that he’s a senior cat. I can see the ways that he’s getting older, though. I know that he probably won’t be around by the time I’m in my 40s.

A part of me grieves a little bit every day for the version of him that I know I’ll lose. I grieve a little bit for the youthful energy he used to have, when he would play fetch with his favorite toys. He lives a good life, but I know it’s getting harder over time. Pet parenthood is a blessing, but carries the terrible curse of the high probability of outliving your pet.

As much as I am sad for the loss that I know I’ll someday face, I’m lucky and I’m happy to have this little guy. And I’m glad to get to share him with all of you.

1. JT is short for Justin Trudeau. I will not be taking questions at this time, thank you.

2. His sister Minerva is, coincidentally, the world champion of Women’s Stick.

3. We have a special food bowl with a retractable lid that opens when it detects his chip. This allows him to graze without his sister eating all of his food.