I’ve had Bridget (aka The Bridge) since high school.
If I work on the couch, Bridget sits on the couch next to me. If I watch a movie on my laptop, Bridget watches it with me. If it’s time for bed, she’ll curl up by my chest. I know there’s a thing about women and their cats (especially single women and their cats). But the truth is, I work from home, so we sort of hang out a lot, and it’s nice to have her around.
She’s the oldest friend I have in this city. She’s known me since I was a kid.
When I first got Bridget, if there was an emergency I would have gotten my mom or my dad to drive her to the vet, to talk to the doctor, to make the important choices, to pay the bill. My job would have been to carry the crate and try to “comfort her”.
But when there was an emergency tonight, at around 12:40 am, with my parents in different cities and my friends asleep, it was just me and The Bridge.
So I got her in her crate and hailed a cab and tried to comfort her which was ridiculous because there is no comforting an unhappy cat in a crate in a taxi cab.
And I talked to the vet, and texted relatives in California, and then talked to the receptionist when the relatives fell asleep and there was no one left to text anymore.
At 3:30, Bridget and I took another cab back to the Lower East Side.
I get why single ladies, and single guys, get cats.
Because at 10 am and 4 pm and 1 am, Bridget is here. And it would feel so very lonely if she wasn’t.
The Bridge is no spring chicken.
But I hope she’s still got a few good lives in her, yet.