The Joy of Cat-astrophising

I arrive home from a trip to the beach and – as usual – the first thing I do is check the house and yard for my disabled cat to make sure he hasn’t found a way through the fence to the outside world. He is the Mr Magoo of the cat world – deaf, brain damaged, with erratic vision (he sees cats where there is only paper blowing in the wind and misses actual cats that walk right by him). But like Mr Magoo, he is supremely confident of his ability to negotiate the world despite this. He would go out onto the road in a minute, unaware that a cat who can’t hear a car coming and has a very slow reaction time is road kill about to happen. I’m more concerned than usual tonight because our new neighbours have two huuuge dogs that look very capable of jumping my fence and have no fence at their place to keep them in.

Bowie the cat is not on the bed where I usually find him. Neither is he anywhere in the house. I check the yard but there is no sign, and a white cat is fairly easy to see in the dark. I feel the symptoms of rising panic – acid in my throat, heart beating faster, a faint sick feeling. I return to the house for another look, wondering what I’ll do if I can’t find him. He could be anywhere. Then I hear his distinctive rusty gate meow. Goodness knows where he was hiding. He looks annoyed, as usual, as if he is tut-tutting about the age I’ve been away and suggesting that his jelly meat could do with refreshing. No wagging tail and ecstatic dog-like welcome here.

I feel a familiar sensation of relief – huge, all-consuming and intensely pleasurable. ‘This,’ I think with a sudden insight, ‘is the reward of catastrophizing – this wonderful feeling when the disaster doesn’t happen.’ No wonder I’m so addicted to it. The payoff is enormous. I’m not really sure how you counter this. But tomorrow I outline how I talk back to my catastrophising thoughts.