Hi, I’m Callie. No, I’m Not a Girl
An origin story involving four veterinarians, one pair of testicles, and absolutely no dignity
Hi, I’m Callie. No, I’m Not a Girl.
An origin story involving four veterinarians, one pair of testicles, and absolutely no dignity
Hi. I’m Callie.
Yes, Callie—short for Caldecott.
No, I’m not a girl.
Yes, I know the name sounds as though I am.
No, I don’t want to talk about it.
Okay. Maybe just a little.
Mumstaff and Dadstaff found me at a pet store. They thought they were going out to buy cat food, but instead, they came home with me.
And—uh, excuse me—
Mumstaff would like me to clarify that they also bought the cat food, even though they had to mortgage the house to pay for it.
Anyway.
An employee at the pet store had brought me in. Her mother had found me outside her back door when I was just a tiny kitten, with my face buried in a food bowl she’d left out for her cats.
A natural talent, spotted early.
She took me inside, fed me properly, and even brought me to a veterinarian for a health check. Unfortunately, she said she couldn’t adopt me because she already had seven cats.
As though that were an excuse.
Her daughter, Jasmine, took me to her workplace, which happened to be a large premium pet food store.
Very convenient.
When it comes to sniffing out food, I am a true master.
Jasmine didn’t put me in a cage. She kept me beside the checkout counter where she was working, so I could greet potential servants personally.
Then my humans walked in.
They didn’t take me home immediately, but they called Jasmine that evening and told her they wanted to adopt me. Just in time, too. Right afterward, another woman tried to claim me.
A bidding war was narrowly avoided.
Jasmine delivered me to my new home and passed along what the veterinarian had told her: the kitten was a girl, approximately six weeks old.
Yes. A girl.
Later, Mumstaff and Dadstaff took me to their local veterinarian.
Yes, the veterinarian confirmed. The kitten is a girl.
Still later, I got sick.
According to Mumstaff, I stopped eating and became limp and droopy. The regular veterinarian was away, so we ended up seeing a different one.
“The kitten has a fever,” the veterinarian said. “No idea why. And she has ear mites, so let’s wash her ears.”
“Absolutely not,” Mumstaff said. “We need to get the kitten eating first. Why isn’t she eating?”
“No idea,” the veterinarian said. “Let’s wash her ears.”
Mumstaff turned right around and rushed me to an emergency clinic miles and miles and miles away.
There, the emergency veterinarian examined me and confirmed that I had a slight temperature. He gave me a shot—YEOWWW!—and a pill.
Presto.
My appetite returned.
Then he said, “Oh, by the way, the kitten has testicles. That means he’s a boy.”
“Yes, I’m aware of what testicles mean,” Mumstaff replied. “But three other veterinarians appear to have missed them.”
I don’t understand what relevance any of this had to anything.
I just wanted to go home and nap.
My humans kept the name Callie.
I respect that.
I’m a cat of nuance. I contain multitudes.
And so I completed the Cat Quartet.
I am the youngest cat in the household, the largest in size, and somehow still the most afraid of everything.
My sister Nebula, who is half my size, dominates me like a tiny empress with a mean left hook. She smacks me merely for breathing in an unauthorized manner.
I don’t fight back.
I spin around, cringe, and silently question the series of choices that brought me to this moment.
Mumstaff laughs at me for being a scaredy-cat, but look at the word.
It’s a job description.
I’m afraid of hats. Swishy skirts. Sudden noises. And any suspicious-looking character who appears unexpectedly.
Like Dadstaff making coffee downstairs.
I freeze on the stairs, stare at Mumstaff, and ask with my eyes:
“Who is that man?”
“It’s Dad,” she says.
I remain unconvinced, but I tiptoe downstairs like a suspicious marshmallow.
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
And sometimes Mumstaff has laid out kitty treats.
I chase birds who somehow wriggle their way into the catio. But even in the middle of a hunt, I allow Mumstaff to pick me up and carry me inside.
Because deep down, I’m still a lap kitten who grew too big for his britches.
I’m trying my best.
I’m simply not sure who anyone is or what is happening most of the time.
But I know this:
I am loved.
And I am doing my weird little best.
Yours anxiously but adorably,
Callie
Movement Minimalist
Gender-Fluid Floof
Greenie Enthusiast
