Empty nest, full heart: My adventures in cat-sitting

“We chose you,” the email subject line read, and I was elated. I’d recently joined an online group that matched pet-sitters with owners, and I’d been selected for my first overnight sit.

Ever since my youngest son had left for college, I’d found myself with a quiet home and too much time on my hands. My days up until now had revolved around school schedules, band practice, and mealtime. Being a full-time mom had been my whole identity for almost two decades. What would I do now that they were gone?

I’d volunteered at the local animal shelter when my kids were growing up and always looked forward to my shifts there. Not only was it highly entertaining, but I’d also adopted several dogs: a three-legged French bulldog, a deaf Pekingese, and a twitchy terrier.

Pet-sitting seemed like a natural fit. My plan was to start small, with cats.

My first sit was with two cats that didn’t like each other. They ate separately, hung out in different rooms, and looked away when passing each other, like moody adolescents. One was very affectionate. The other flicked his tail impatiently when he needed me to open the door or refill his bowl. It felt reminiscent of parenting teens who’d roll their eyes when you spoke. I tried not to take it personally (at this, I’d had lots of practice).

Each new pet-sit was a welcome adventure. My younger independent self had loved taking road trips, exploring new places, and spending time alone. Turns out my older self did, too. 

Once I began to reframe my empty-nester status as something positive, it started to seem like more of an asset than a challenge. Sure, it was the end of one era. But it was also the start of a new one.

I could eat crackers for dinner at 4 o’clock. I could sleep until 9 a.m. on a weekday. I’d focused on others for so long – my kids, my husband, our parents – that it felt like a luxury to set my own schedule and pursue latent interests. Even my caregiving was evolving from the two-legged to the four-legged variety.

Soon I had stayed with more than a dozen cats. No two were alike, and I was amused and besotted with each one.

Cuddles liked to drink from a dripping faucet while Bella preferred to sip from a tall Stanley cup.

Aurora acted like a dog and would come when I called her. Dusty would meow hysterically if he could see the bottom of his food bowl. Bubbles became mesmerized watching bird videos on my iPad (I discovered this while scrolling Instagram with her in my lap), and Jack had a nightlife outside that began around 10 p.m.

Pet-sitting, however, like parenting, wasn’t without its challenges. One cat I began to sit regularly, Henry, liked to plop down on my laptop when I was writing, or if I was reading, he’d wedge himself between me and my book. Then he’d flip onto his back for me to scratch his belly.

When I did, he’d clamp his claws around my wrist and hiss in a sudden fury. This happened more times than I care to admit before I wised up to his trick.

Cats taught me many lessons, just as my kids did, about meeting them where they are. They aren’t malleable like dogs. I was used to dictating when we’d eat, sleep, and go for a walk. Cats don’t take direction. Cats tell you what the plan is. 

Simba and Nala had been adopted from a local shelter in New England, and their owner described them as shy and skittish. They greeted me by running as fast as they could in the opposite direction.

My first night alone with them, I dreamed I heard furniture being moved. I woke to find the kitchen in disarray – specifically, all the personal items I’d left on the counter. My books, calculator, and planner were knocked to the floor. My snacks – a bag of chips, a peanut tin, a cookie bag – were on the other side of the room. And most alarmingly, a large package was turned on its side and now sat in the living room.

I texted a cat-loving friend: “They won’t hurt me when I’m sleeping, will they?” 

She wrote back, “Probably not. But sleep with your door closed.”

They never warmed up to me the entire week I was there. Sometimes the best you can do is try to coexist and secure your belongings. 

My most memorable experience was a lesson in faith and optimism. I arrived to sit for a family that was moving out of state, and one of its cats, Shady, had disappeared the day before I got there.

They were frantic to find him, and I promised to keep an eye out. Each day I called for him outside and left cat litter on the road, hoping the smell might lure him home. Several times I thought I saw a black cat that looked like the pictures I’d seen, but it would run when I approached. Shady never showed up the entire 10 days I was there.

By the time I arrived back home, my phone buzzed with the most wonderful text. “He’s home!” it said. “He showed up right after you left.” I was relieved for Shady and overjoyed for the owners. I’d felt like he’d been in the vicinity the whole time.

While I’ve settled in now to my quieter life, I appreciate things I once took for granted. My house, once strewn with shoe piles, backpacks, and dirty dishes upstairs, has now become a peaceful refuge. Snacks don’t disappear and neither does the hot water. My laundry room stays clean.

And if ever the stillness gets to be too much, a new adventure is just one click away.