Issue #8 Binny & The Cats
unexpected lessons in love from a pitbull terrier mutt & two feral cats
Last year in the span of two days on a seemingly low-key weekend in early May, Matt and I adopted not one, but two baby animals: our pittie mix, Binny, and our second cat, Phoebe, both of whom were less than 9 weeks old at the time.
Already the guardians of one particularly animated tomcat, Flea – the decision was ambitious to say the least. Our hearts overruled our logic, and the cost would be considerable. As would the reward.
For months we had casually entertained the question of adding either another cat or a dog to the family dynamic. During our nightly routine Flea would pick whose legs he preferred to cuddle between, inevitably leaving one of us out. This spurred musings of a world where the ratio was more suited for equitable couch cuddles. We’d adopt an orange cat or maybe a pitbull terrier – of course not both at the same time, that would be crazy.
We also thought that maybe Flea needed a friend. A pandemic kitten who I adopted at four weeks old in April of 2020, Flea had developed a few behavioral quirks. In addition to general separation anxiety often only quelled by suckling and kneading a soft fabric preferably on my chest, he had a tendency to hunt me like prey during his witching hour, flinging himself around my ankles, talons and teeth first. Around 3 am each night, he’d perform a kind of seance that involved incessant closet door and/or mirror scratching usually accompanied by pawing my face. Our efforts to keep him out of the bedroom as a possible solution backfired. His embolden resolve to kick the door down prompted us to partake in a comically unhinged nightly routine of building all manner of couch cushion fortresses to cover the door, all of which Flea eventually outmaneuvered. The sleep deprivation of it all drove us to the brink resulting in a $400 Home Depot run where we acquired supplies to build a jimmy-rigged ten foot-tall fabric wrapped foam barrier.
We concluded we had our hands full and stuck to following animal rescue accounts instead of making any rash decisions. Of course it wasn’t long before one pup captured our hearts. We fawned over her cute spots and lovable description, but again decided it wasn’t practical. We needed to be realistic. We needed to wait.
A few weeks later we met up with Matt’s brother for dinner. “So I hear you guys are getting a puppy?” he said upon greeting me. I retorted “Um no, we are not,” giving Matt a nudge and the side-eye.
Come March, Matt proposed. We were in Big Sur, one of our favorite places and arguably one of the most magical in the world, consumed with oxytocin and far from reality. I looked into Matt’s big puppy dog eyes over breakfast and said, “Let’s get a dog.” We gushed about it for a while before reeling it in once more, saying we’d wait until after we got married considering we now had a wedding to plan.
By May our logic was derailed. Matt returned from a work trip to Montreal with a surge of energy. He was inspired, and hungry for the zest of life. This particularly ambitious, open, and somewhat impulsive attitude was met with the synchronicity that a friend was fostering two pittie puppies. While he was away, we’d naturally sent each other this friend’s Instagram stories, unable to hold ourselves back from falling in love with the little piglet-looking pups. Matt made his case and I relented. By Thursday, he’d filled out the application and I smiled for the camera as we filmed a video tour of our 750 sq ft bungalow.
The next morning, I got a text from Matt. A photo of a tiny, sickly orange-looking kitten wrapped in a blanket. “My co-worker found this baby in the 7/11 dumpster this morning and can’t keep it.”
Without hesitation, I said we should take her in. The knee jerk reaction came as no surprise to either of us. Matt once had to talk me out of taking home an entire litter of kittens at a gas station in Bakersfield while on a camping trip.
Meanwhile, our dog adoption application was approved and our meet-in-greet was set for the next day. Having recruited our friends who were also entertaining pup parenthood, the four of us went together to the foster mom’s house to meet Binny and his sister, Ginny. It was love at first sight. Soon, Ginny was headed home with our friends, and Binny with us.
In the span of 48 hours our family of three had grown to five – Phoebe had her own princess castle catio, Binny was settled in his puppy palace crate, and Flea paroled the doorways growling at the smell of the new intruders.
For the next few weeks what I mostly remember is poop. Phoebe was on the mend, working through dumpster gunk in her tiny tummy prescribed probiotics and anti-diarrhea meds administered by syringe twice a day while slowly learning to use her litter box though her aim was more often than not out of range.
Binny’s bowel movements were a bit more predictable. He’d wake us up most mornings around 4 am and again at six to do his business. He only had a few fecal related accidents, all of which, however, tested our gag reflex. Hosing down a crate in the middle of the night is not something I anticipated doing more than once, but I stand corrected.
Binny peed constantly. Considering his age, he did pick up potty training pretty quickly, learning to use the bell on the back door with about a 50/50 success rate. The rugs we had bought as an “investment” a few months prior took a major hit, as did the white sofa. It also wasn’t long before the turf in the backyard smelled like a puppy pee pad despite our best efforts to hose it down regularly with odor eliminating enzymes.
Initially I kept everyone separated, but after a couple weeks I decided it was time to integrate the household. I was most afraid of how Flea would react to Phoebe. He was 13 pounds and she was about four. His hair stood straight up when I’d pet him after having just held her. Vibes were not promising.
To my relief, Phoebe ran full speed towards Flea, ears back, tail down, without hesitation asserted her fearlessness and dominance immediately. Flea took the hint and retreated.
When I introduced Phoebe and Binny, Phoebe again held her own. Binny, in true form, was thrilled by the presence of a potential playmate and tried to engage Phoebe in a friendly game of chase and bark. Phoebe swiftly found higher ground swatting and hissing to keep him at bay.
It wasn’t long before they all adapted. Binny and Phoebe formed a special bond – Binny taking on certain cat-like qualities like lazer chasing and a preference for raised surfaces while Phoebe internalized dog-ish behaviors like peanut butter licking and a love of butt scratches. Phoebe and Flea formed a friendship of their own, oscillating between WWE takedowns and the occasional co-nap cuddle. Flea typically keeps his distance from Binny, but tolerates him nonetheless. Lately, I’ve noticed the sproutings of kinship.
A few months in, Matt and I, however, were starting to teeter. The constant demand for our attention, the upheaval of our routines and rhythms, and the disruption of our zen home environment was taking a toll on our general well being. It became quite apparent we had outgrown the bungalow. Between the crate, toys, bowls, scratch posts, and litter boxes our living space began feeling more like a petting zoo, though we asserted we preferred the term “animal sanctuary.”
Turns out, you really do need three litter boxes for two cats. Even with two Phoebe refused, and would bolt out the door at any chance to pee in the dirt on the side of the house. One time, she got out at night and jumped the fence. It took us a couple hours before finding her, during which I scanned the streets with a flashlight as tears streamed down my face. She was less than six months old and hadn’t been spayed or chipped. On the verge, I concluded we’d lost her forever before finding her playing happily with the bugs in the neighbor’s front yard.
Somewhat traumatized and increasingly claustrophobic, it was time for a change. We left the Venice bungalow for Pasadena. Flea peed his carrier due to the stress of the move (he’s a nervous pee-er, once peed on me while taking him through airport security), but quickly forgave me upon discovering the numerous window sills, all perfect for watching the neighborhood’s diverse bird population.
We also acquired a mudroom, a key amenity in regaining a level of order, hygiene and sanity. By this point, we’d made it out of the woods of puppy and kittenhood. Binny was sleeping through the night, was fully vaccinated and neutered, and crate trained. Phoebe’s tummy was on track, she’d healed from her spay surgery, and had also been fully vaccinated.
Catching our breath from the first eight months, we then entered the teenage phase. Binny was now approaching 75 lbs and had learned the art of selective listening. Basic at-home training had gotten us so far, but it was time for school.
It’s tough to say who hated the 10-week-long obedience group training class more, me or Binny. Matt was traveling a lot for work at the time, so I took the lead. A needed move considering Binny was much more likely to act out when dad was away. The first class left us both completely exhausted. I’ve never seen Binny so tired as he lay completely limp across my legs on the couch when we got home. Some weeks went really well. Others considerably tested our resolve, attention span, and patience both for each other and our fellow students. In the end, our bond was strengthened, we learned a loose leash walk, a sit/stay, and left with much improved recall and much less reactivity. It’s safe to say neither Binny or I am destined for the show ring, but together we make an average B student.
Phoebe’s teenage era brought on a growth spurt and an insatiable appetite for wet food, and wet food alone. For weeks she cried relentlessly following me around until I caved and cracked open a new can. Her other favorite pastime remained the art of escape – which, you know, is really great for mom’s anxiety. In addition to waiting by the back door and bolting through the crack at any given chance, I once caught her climbing the chimney sweep. Her white paws were black and sooty, telling on her like a teenager with alcohol on their breath. A fireplace screen was swiftly ordered.
Binny also has a knack for pushing the limits of our parental anxiety. You would think Binny’s favorite place in the world is the vet based on how many times he’s needed medical attention.
There was the time he ate a mystery plastic object that the emergency vet had to pull out of his butt, the time he came home from a boarding facility with bite marks all over his neck and ears (the last time we did that), the time he ate so much plant matter he threw up every day for a week before the ultrasound confirmed it was just a build up of sticks and grass, the time he got heart stroke on a hike, the time we thought he had a UTI, the time a rope toy hit him in the face and he yelped so many times over the course of the next two days we brought him in for examination only to be told he likely had a bruise. There were at least three other times he ate something he wasn’t supposed to and showed signs of a possible blockage to the point we were advised to take him in for examination. If not for pet insurance, our bank account would be hemorrhaging.
The tricky thing about Binny is that he is both a drama queen and incredibly resilient. It’s very hard to know when something is truly an emergency or not with him. An art we are still learning to master.
Either way, trying to keep him out of trouble is a near full-time operation. Just when I think there is no more irrigation system left in the backyard to dig up and ingest, I am proven wrong. The dog needs something to focus on. Whether it be a trail, a flower to sniff, a dog to play with, an indestructible red kong toy, treats to find, a ball to chase, a stick to destroy, or an ice cube to chomp – Binny needs to be on the move or have something in his mouth a lot of the time. Luckily though, with enough stimulation or exercise he tuckers out pretty quick. When the clock strikes 8pm, he goes cozy boy mode and wants to be burrito-wrapped in a blanket on the sofa preferably with half his body on at least one of us. He also loves to sunbathe and enjoys a midday nap, which aids considerably in the day-to-day task of Binny supervision.
Despite the maintenance required, his sweet natured temperament, happy-go-lucky attitude, and social disposition make him extremely lovable, adaptable, and usually a very good boy (we are still learning not to bark at or jump on our friends).
Like puppyhood, I know this phase won’t last forever. One day maybe he’ll just sit next to me at my feet while I write or be able to play in the yard unattended for a few hours. Though I can’t always imagine it now, one day he’ll be an old dog and I’ll wish he was 15 months old again.
Considering both Binny and Phoebe have interrupted me more times than I can count while trying to write this essay, there are admittedly times of overwhelm when I entertain regretting the choice to take them on. I recently read an essay by psychotherapist Gretchen Winterkorn titled, “Regretting Having Children: Are we allowed to talk about it?” where she bravely discusses mourning the loss of the life not chosen that is inherent in motherhood.
I’m not sure discussing pet guardianship regret is quite as taboo, but the topic resonated nonetheless. While processing and moving through the major decision of getting married, it’s been a year that has stretched my tolerance for the adjustments inherent in intimate relationship. As someone who often finds solitude preferable for my creative process, I catch myself blaming the animals (as I have in the past blamed Matt) for my inner critic’s prescribed shortcomings. “I’d be more productive without them,” it grovels. “Their constant distractions are holding me back.”
The grief of losing the life not chosen is inherent in choice. It is not an indicator of having made the wrong one. “There is no choice without loss,” Gretchen writes.
And I have found that the best ones I’ve made have brought me immense joy in the midst of the inevitable loss of whatever wasn't. Just as Matt has added more joy and meaning to my life than I could have ever imagined, Binny and the cats do the same. Every single day, no less.
We become religious,
then we turn from it,
then we are in need and maybe we turn back.
We turn to making money,
then we turn to the moral life,
then we think about money again.
We meet wonderful people, but lose them
in our busyness.
We’re, as the saying goes, all over the place.
Steadfastness, it seems,
is more about dogs than about us.
One of the reasons we love them so much.“How It Is with Us, and How It Is with Them” by Mary Oliver, from Dog Songs.
I truly cannot fathom, or bear, a world where they don’t exist. The depth of my love for these creatures truly blows my mind. I look at them in total adoration admiring every inch of their little beings and personality. I gush over the smallest detail. A face they make. A way they sit. A noise they make. Binny’s old man chin whiskers and droopy lips. Phoebe’s mismatched toe beans and unbelievable softness. Flea’s tufted ears and brilliant green eyes. The way Binny explores a creek like he’s found heaven. The way Phoebe rolls on the ground when she wants attention. Or the way Flea looks at me like he knows all my secrets (because he does).
The past year with Binny and the cats has offered me profound and unexpected lessons in love. And though Matt and I may have underestimated the commitment, we have remained committed nonetheless. Our relationship has been put to the test and strengthened (in addition to our body’s ability to fight allergens), and our hearts have somehow expanded tenfold.
Though I can jokingly blame him for instigating, I’ve never once felt alone in the undertaking. And I’ll be forever grateful for his initiative, willingness, and openheartedness that led to the addition of Binny and Phoebe to my life. Plus, watching him love and care for the animals is a special kind of delight. He’s such a good dog dad that my brother got him a hat for Christmas that says, “the dog father” (he’s half Italian so it works). He’s loved Flea like his own from day one and routinely gushes over Phoebe’s perfection (she is, in fact, purrfect).
A masterclass in grace and patience, raising Binny and the cats has given us deeper trust and confidence in our ability to work as a team, communicate, pivot, and problem-solve. We both agree that waking up every morning to the immediate demand of a dependent – in our case Binny’s very vocal proclamation of his needs – is the hardest part (god bless all the parents and caregivers in the world). Not to mention, leaving town is a whole ass ordeal (shout out to all the amazing pet sitters, friends, and family who have helped).
Puppies are really fucking hard (& expensive) and adopting feral cats invites a certain amount of chaos to a home, but receiving the healing power of an animal’s uncomplicated, unconditional love far exceeds their inconvenience. Cultivating trust, forming attachment, and creating a bond with an animal has to be one of life’s greatest gifts and privileges.
Though I constantly worry about their wellbeing, the vulnerability inherent in this form of love has been completely transformative. I have never felt as calm or as embodied than in the quiet moments with Binny and the cats. When all is well, when Binny is curled up on the couch, Flea is perched in the window, and Phoebe is sprawled out in her basket, I catch a glimpse of total contentment. The consistency, simplicity, and sweetness of Binny and the cats brings me home to total presence, gratitude, acceptance, and connection.
Over and over again, I find it true that animals offer so much more than we could ever give them in return. It’s been said, who really rescues who?
We may have gotten more than we bargained for, but the full family cuddle couldn’t be more worth it. I’m also quite happy to report, Flea does seem overall much better adjusted.
Reading: Dogs Songs by Mary Oliver, Rachel Rickett’s Newsletter “Queer as in Free P@lest!ne”
Watching: Civil War, Bad Faith
Listening to: “Sexy to Someone” by Clairo
Doing: Pride things like Junior High’s Still Bisexual Storyteller’s Night, Participating in Art Saves Upcoming Raffles for Palestine, Prepping for my new song release coming very soon!