Being Almost-a-Cat
(re-posting from my old blog; this is an old essay I would like to re-write at some point, as I am unsatisfied with it as it is now)
I’ve often ended up correcting people on the identifies “with vs as” issue, mentioning that otherkin are *as* and other-hearted/otherkith is *with*.
But I don’t know that there are any narratives of what it is like to be other-hearted. I can’t blame people for being confused when there is no one to demonstrate a difference. I have seen a few commentaries, but rarely on this site. Mostly on The Other Hearts forum.
So here is my take on what it is like to be cat-hearted, since it is still a part of my nonhuman identity in some ways.
I have written, now, about what it feels like to identify as things nonhuman. But identifying with something nonhuman is a different beast.
When I look at wolves, especially the Alexander Archipelago, I think “oh look, it’s me.” Looking at domestic cats, however, I go “oh look, it’s what I want to be. What I almost am.” It is a feeling of such wanting that it aches in my chest. It is a family I can never fully be a part of–eternally estranged from them. It feels like I am pressing my nose to glass and looking in on something that I should know, but don’t.
For a long time since my awakening, I went back and forth on whether or not I had a feline theriotype. I have had cameo shifts, feeling slinky and powerful–a perfect balance from nose-tip to tail-end, a flowing line, perfect geometry. But these feelings are rare. They are still…not quite right. I am not a cat. This distresses me.
Species dysphoria often comes up in discussions of nonhumanity, but I have also discussed it with other-hearted folk before. If it’s not species dysphoria of the same sort, it is a similar feeling. A pain in my heart, sometimes. A pull to beg this family of beings to let me in, to let me be one of them, please…
This is the biggest difference, for me. I am a wolf. I long to be a wolf in body again, but I know I am a wolf in other respects. Cat, however, is something that I am not. Cat is something I want to be. Cat is such a strong connection that it hurts when I realize I am not a cat in any respect. Some days I wish I was at least a cat therian, but to call myself this would be dishonest.
Besides this pain, however, there is a joy to it. I look at cats and see family–no matter how estranged. I try to learn a language I feel I should already know when I try to communicate with them in my human ways. I hold a kitten and feel like a babysitter for some mother cat. I feel adopted. A strange being among felines, not the same, but part of the family regardless.
I have always had a great compassion for cats, as well. Where others have ignored their cats, I have fed them expensive treats and given them attention. Where some cats I’ve known have had matted fur that no one has bothered to brush, I find a brush and do my best to brush it clean. Often, I have had cats return the same love.
In one case my feline companion ended up favoring me over her actual owners and would follow me around the house, sleeping in my bed, waiting outside my door if I shut her out. When I woke up in the morning, she would follow me to the bathroom and we would perform the same routine. I would turn on the water for her to drink from while I got ready for the day. I took care of her, and in return, she took care of me.
When I am afraid of malevolent spirits, I look to cats for protection. When my paranoia would get to me, having my feline friend in the room, faithfully sitting in cat-loaf formation at the end of my bed, gave me a sense of greater security. One time when I was in a scary place and afraid of a woman who lived downstairs, my friend’s two cats sat themselves down at the top of the stairs outside the room I was staying in and didn’t move for hours. They sat there, almost as if standing guard over me. I was so thankful.
Even as a child, I remember checking out the same book from the school library over and over (likely an autism related thing) called ABC Cats. It had information on a different breed of cat for every letter of the alphabet. I likely have them all memorized, even after so many years. A for American Shorthair, B for Bengal Cat, C for Cornish Rex, D for Devon Rex, E for English Shorthair…Later, I graduated to reading the Catwings series. We had to read the first book in school, but I did all I could to hunt down every other book in the series after the assignment was over. The next series was Warriors, after that. I always saw some part of myself in these cats I read about.
My love of and identification with cats has been strong my whole life. This is what it means to be cat-hearted, to me. This is what it feels like. I may not be a cat, but I’m as close as I can get, and I will always consider cats to be family to me.
I’ve often ended up correcting people on the identifies “with vs as” issue, mentioning that otherkin are *as* and other-hearted/otherkith is *with*.
But I don’t know that there are any narratives of what it is like to be other-hearted. I can’t blame people for being confused when there is no one to demonstrate a difference. I have seen a few commentaries, but rarely on this site. Mostly on The Other Hearts forum.
So here is my take on what it is like to be cat-hearted, since it is still a part of my nonhuman identity in some ways.
I have written, now, about what it feels like to identify as things nonhuman. But identifying with something nonhuman is a different beast.
When I look at wolves, especially the Alexander Archipelago, I think “oh look, it’s me.” Looking at domestic cats, however, I go “oh look, it’s what I want to be. What I almost am.” It is a feeling of such wanting that it aches in my chest. It is a family I can never fully be a part of–eternally estranged from them. It feels like I am pressing my nose to glass and looking in on something that I should know, but don’t.
For a long time since my awakening, I went back and forth on whether or not I had a feline theriotype. I have had cameo shifts, feeling slinky and powerful–a perfect balance from nose-tip to tail-end, a flowing line, perfect geometry. But these feelings are rare. They are still…not quite right. I am not a cat. This distresses me.
Species dysphoria often comes up in discussions of nonhumanity, but I have also discussed it with other-hearted folk before. If it’s not species dysphoria of the same sort, it is a similar feeling. A pain in my heart, sometimes. A pull to beg this family of beings to let me in, to let me be one of them, please…
This is the biggest difference, for me. I am a wolf. I long to be a wolf in body again, but I know I am a wolf in other respects. Cat, however, is something that I am not. Cat is something I want to be. Cat is such a strong connection that it hurts when I realize I am not a cat in any respect. Some days I wish I was at least a cat therian, but to call myself this would be dishonest.
Besides this pain, however, there is a joy to it. I look at cats and see family–no matter how estranged. I try to learn a language I feel I should already know when I try to communicate with them in my human ways. I hold a kitten and feel like a babysitter for some mother cat. I feel adopted. A strange being among felines, not the same, but part of the family regardless.
I have always had a great compassion for cats, as well. Where others have ignored their cats, I have fed them expensive treats and given them attention. Where some cats I’ve known have had matted fur that no one has bothered to brush, I find a brush and do my best to brush it clean. Often, I have had cats return the same love.
In one case my feline companion ended up favoring me over her actual owners and would follow me around the house, sleeping in my bed, waiting outside my door if I shut her out. When I woke up in the morning, she would follow me to the bathroom and we would perform the same routine. I would turn on the water for her to drink from while I got ready for the day. I took care of her, and in return, she took care of me.
When I am afraid of malevolent spirits, I look to cats for protection. When my paranoia would get to me, having my feline friend in the room, faithfully sitting in cat-loaf formation at the end of my bed, gave me a sense of greater security. One time when I was in a scary place and afraid of a woman who lived downstairs, my friend’s two cats sat themselves down at the top of the stairs outside the room I was staying in and didn’t move for hours. They sat there, almost as if standing guard over me. I was so thankful.
Even as a child, I remember checking out the same book from the school library over and over (likely an autism related thing) called ABC Cats. It had information on a different breed of cat for every letter of the alphabet. I likely have them all memorized, even after so many years. A for American Shorthair, B for Bengal Cat, C for Cornish Rex, D for Devon Rex, E for English Shorthair…Later, I graduated to reading the Catwings series. We had to read the first book in school, but I did all I could to hunt down every other book in the series after the assignment was over. The next series was Warriors, after that. I always saw some part of myself in these cats I read about.
My love of and identification with cats has been strong my whole life. This is what it means to be cat-hearted, to me. This is what it feels like. I may not be a cat, but I’m as close as I can get, and I will always consider cats to be family to me.