Jennifer Thuy Vi Nguyen at Longreads:
When I arrived in Harlem, I felt anguished responsibility and resentment toward the cat. He could die, I perseverated. I had imagined Manhattan from the vantage point of a twenty-something with her lover, but was now relegated to “indoor New York lesbian with dying cat.” I searched his litter for pee and poop, as though playing a weird Where’s Waldo? Tom needed anti-anxiety medication with his wet food, and I was careful with the timing and dosage. I bypassed New York City nightlife to keep the cat alive.
Despite my worries as a feline caretaker, Tom displayed what I have since learned are normal cat behaviors. He stared out the living room window overlooking the Harlem River with longing and disdain. He walked across my keyboard with apathetic audacity. One moment he would lay like a cherub, the next he would reach for a feather toy attached to a string. He protracted and retracted his claws with a bored cadence, as if to say, I’m a cat and this shit is just what I do.
I oscillated between wondering whether Tom was fighting to live or actively trying to die.
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