Maybe I Don't Want Your House, Either

A lesson in real estate, cats, and marking territory.

We’re working on finding a permanent home in Nashville, which isn’t nearly as difficult a task as it might have been a couple of years ago, but is frustrating enough that we are, at this point, tempted to do something exploitative and crazy, like carry our wardrobes in our car and sit down to a holiday meal in the dining room, like we just live here now and you have a choice to take our money or have toddler roommates.

The toddlers, of course, are making their own efforts: one peed in the backyard of the house we were turned down for most recently, marking his territory on a playscape. They should up their game as well for the next one. Both pee. Or pee in the front yard. Moon the neighbors. If it gets really bad, we’ll all do it. Desperate times call for desperate measures.

Look, I get it. It’s a hot market and, while most of the people who are leaving California and Chicago for greener, less taxed pastures are already here, I’m sure there’s someone left who can dig out a real estate investor who mistakenly bought a fixer-upper at $500,000 thinking they could sell it for a million, even though its two blocks away from an abandoned Office Max they use as a haunted house six weeks out of the year, when they finally come to their senses. Hope springs eternal!

The first house fell through for exactly this reason. The second, toddler-pee house was underpriced and competitive — and extremely small — but it did have a pool, so there was potential to at least live outdoors for a while while we bumped around a custom 1990s kitchen, although the “bush wee,” now that I think about it, probably didn’t bode well for pool cleaning costs. Or the lawn.

More depressingly, we were turned down for a cat, and those are usually free. Tony Baloney, as he was affectionately known for the two weeks we were in contact, was previously living in a storm drain between the Waffle House and the Wal-Mart, but was rescued by an entirely too-generous human who thought a home with three toddlers, an elderly dog, and a door that opens once in a while because the humans inside occasionally need to leave, was unsuitable for Fat Tony’s tastes, as was the monster master bathroom he’d have to live in for two weeks because, as it happens, it was tiled, and that was simply unacceptable.

At one point, we were able to come to a brief agreement. We would cage off the door, which had the happy effect of also caging in the kids, Fat Tony would spend most of his waking time with me while I work, which for cats is, tops, 6 hours a day, and I would agree to protect Tony from tiny fingers and loud noises, which his delicate ears never heard in his time as a resident of Waffle House.

But then, there was mention of visitation. Two weeks. Regular updates about Tony’s well-being, including video evidence of his continued comfort. A home study. A safety inspection. I was sent training videos after photos of Tony’s possible bathroom home met with transitional approval. The training video instructed me to perform a delicate dance of introduction between Tony and Alfredo Sauce, the existing cat, who remained unconcerned throughout the ordeal, and probably would have been fine. He has his own friends: a council of identical tuxedo cats who have some sort of Eyes Wide Shut-style secret meetup on our porch, which is frankly more unsettling than anything a 3-year-old could do to poor Tony.

Ultimately, I agreed. I wanted Tony Baloney! And moreover, I kind of wanted to rescue Tony. And we had just lost Fat George, a cat I got on clearance from a shelter because no one wanted him, the best pet I have ever owned, and whose death capped off a year of losses that I took personally in a really unhealthy, spiritually destructive sort of way, so I was poised for more self-inflicted emotional abuse.

At some point, though, I was informed I was not cut out for the task of raising a cat I probably could get for free if I was willing to climb into a storm drain. Or leave my car door open in a slightly more rural neighborhood.

I got Fred +for $50 from PetSmart, and I had to text someone I never heard from again, telling her that I promised not to declaw him and that I’d make a concerted effort to keep him inside, which he has since challenged, because he needs to meet with a secret council of tuxedo cats and patrol the garbage cans in the alley. He’s happy, but was never asked for references.

Long story short, we’re taking referalls for houses and drop shipments of kittens. Also willing to consider reptiles — at least some of us are — and tamer wild animals, which probably won’t help us with purchasing a house.

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This is just a personal essay, but I do want your personal opinion.

While I experiment with content, I’d love it if you’d leave a comment on what you’d like to see aside from recipes. I don’t plan on talking about politics — I do enough of that — and I haven’t been struck with inspiration on the Catholic front, though maybe some of these spiritually destructive losses I’ve just unearthed could be a topic for a future post.

To reward you, here’s an exclusive photo of a kid being adorable.