004: I'm dropping the furbaby language

controversial take on pet ownership semantics and brain bacteria

My cat, Oatmeal, has been sick for the last month. On January 3rd of this year, I was playing with him on the floor of our bedroom while my fiance showered. Oats was reaching up to grab a toy mouse when he suddenly lost balance and began walking quickly in a circle, dragging the left side of his body as though he were drunk and paddling in a pool with only one hand. I called to my fiance, Sam, who came running out of the bathroom as we watched in a panic, fearing that it was the end of Oatmeal’s short life. But then he shook it off and ran to hide under the bed, his enormous blind eyes shaking as his head rocked with fear of what just happened. We scrambled to the emergency vet that luckily is right down the street from where we live, and the possibilities started rolling in from the vet who was professional, but clearly very concerned (which is your worst nightmare as a pet owner).

It could have been a seizure or a stroke. It’s possible that it’s a cancer affecting his brain or spinal cord, or possibly a parasite in the brain.

She was calm but serious, giving us every possibility over the metal table in a poorly lit room. We were in our pajamas. It was 11 pm. Sam was half showered. And Oatmeal was in his pet carrier in the lab behind the room. We couldn’t see him when the vet spoke to us. My debit card was charged for $780 for blood testing and the exam. We brought Oatmeal home that night and I sobbed.

For four days we didn’t know the cause. We just held him and gave him treats and I cried, a lot. It had been so scary wondering if those moments playing with him were our last moments together. They hadn’t been, but the memory trickled back every time I entered the bedroom, every time he brought me a toy, every time I looked at him.

On the fourth day, the vet called while I was at work. Oatmeal’s blood tests had come back positive for the toxoplasmosis antibody, meaning yes he did have a parasite in his brain, technically a bacterial infection.

Did I do this? Did I give it to him somehow? Can he drop dead from this?

The vet responded plainly. No, no, and animals, like people, can have sudden death at any time although not likely. Give him the medication and monitor his behavior.

We’ve been giving Oatmeal antibiotics every twelve hours for the last four weeks. Sam wraps him up in a towel and holds his head steady while I use syringes to squirt a fowl-tasting liquid antibiotic in his mouth. Oatmeal doesn’t like it, he loathes it. He tries to spit it up and the medicine gets all over his fur down his neck and the front of his chest, drying on his fur in a sticky hard mess that I have to clean with a warm wet towel. The antibiotics make his litterbox miserable, both for Oats in using it and for us in cleaning it up. On the second day of medication, he had such an awful upset stomach that he grumbled and growled whenever we touched him and didn’t bathe himself the entire day. Halfway through the medication, partway during week two and for all of week three, he developed this terrible hacking cough like he was trying to make himself throw up the medication. It was jarring and startling and made my stomach drop each time he did it. I’ve been beyond anxious, afraid for Oatmeal and the pain he may be in (which the doctor assured me is only an upset stomach) and how long he is to live. I find myself frozen with anxiety, watching him like I’m stuck in the traffic leading up to a highway accident, everyone wanting to pass right by but needing to take a peek first. I watch him with intensity, I feel rigid at all times, even the walls of our home feel tighter and closer. If all I could do were give medication and monitor behavior then I would do that perfectly.

I adopted Oatmeal during an extremely lonely part of my life. I was twenty-three, in an unfilling relationship, and living with my partner who worked full time. Oatmeal was my company, my companion. Knowingly adopting a disabled cat, I vowed to give him my full attention, all of my care and love in the world. And when my relationship abruptly ended and it was just me and Oatmeal in a ghostly cold apartment, he gave me a concrete reason to get out of bed, to go to the store, to go to work. When my biggest life-altering moments happened in those months, Oatmeal was the one who was with me at all times, comforting me through the biggest pain of my life.

And throughout this past month, and all his life, I have been Oat’s Mom, he is my son, my boy, my baby. Sam is his dad. But Oatmeal is not. He is our cat. He is not our son. My relationship to him should not be anything like one with my future child. Yes, Oats is part of our family, but my fearsome obsession with his well-being is doing no one any favors. On that second day of his antibiotics when he was grumbly and had an upset stomach, I found myself actively making things worse, spending too much time near him, bringing him food he did not want, and even trying to coax him up to play so that I could see him move as reassurance he was okay. He needed to be left alone. Cats are not people, and even people need to be left alone sometimes. I don’t need to spend that much time with Oats, he is not a human baby, he does not need my constant attention. He is an adult cat, fully capable of caring for himself within reason and with well-deserved alone time.

I understand why we use “furbaby” language, we want to express how much we care for our pets, and that our love for them goes beyond “ownership” of an animal. For many people who cannot or chose to not have children, having a pet an referring to them as their child may be comforting or healing or completing in some way. However, I do believe that for me, and how my all-or-nothing, black-and-white thinking brain works, things get lost in translation and how I use language impacts me more subconsciously. While I hold my tongue in correcting others, I am very intentional with how I use my words and what implications those words have. I have a responsibility to Oatmeal as a pet owner, but not the same responsibility I will have as a parent one day. And as someone who values that clarity and distinction, I think my “cat-mom” days are over.

And so, I am dropping the furbaby language, in hopes that I can think more clearly and critically about his care, because he is not my child, he is a cat, and I will care for him the best I can with all the love in the world, but I will not smother him with unwanted affection. And this does not mean when Sam and I do have children one day, Oats will be forgotten or left to fend for himself, like I said, he is a part of the family, but he has the role of pet not child. He is to be fed and have his spaces cleaned and respected. He is to be taken to the vet and have his medical needs addressed. He is to be cared for in all the ways he cannot on his own. He is to be given love and attention when he seeks it out, not when I have to pry him from his favorite spots to give me attention. I am not raising him like I would a child. There is no more that he needs to be taught. Raising and caring for a child is a whole other beast, comparing them in my all-or-nothing brain is not computing. On a whole other note, Oatmeal’s existence is not ornamental or aesthetic, he is not in my life to solely bring me comfort and enjoyment. He is not a toy. He is not a baby. He can be my companion, though.

We got Oatmeal’s final blood test results back from the doctor last night. The antibiotics are working and his toxoplasmosis antibody levels have more than halved. We do have to finish out the round of antibiotics and monitor Oatmeal in case the episode happens again, but with our good news, our entire household sighed with relief, even the walls seemed to relax their shoulders.

September, 2021

February, 2025