perspective

Pet sitting gives me the pet love I can't otherwise have

Warning: This article contains references to suicide.

I'm the pet-sitter of my friends. 

The one without a partner or a pet of my own, a people-pleaser with an insatiable need to help.

So, when my friend Matilda asked me to look after her cat over Christmas, I said yes without a second thought.

Why I don't have a pet of my own

I'm not at a place in my life where I can adopt a pet of my own.

I'm conscious of the financial investment they require, especially in a cost-of-living crisis.

I live in a one-bedroom, third-floor apartment. Apart from the balcony, there'd be nowhere for a pet to go.

Add an energy-limiting physical disability to the mix, and having my own pet seems like a bit too much.

So short-term pet-sitting, at my apartment or — if it's accessible — the owner's place, is the perfect alternative.

Matilda was conscious of my access needs. She wore a mask when she dropped Kevin off and made sure that his bowls were in a place where I'd be unlikely to trip, and his food was in a place I could easily reach.

Such accommodations are the bare minimum I deserve, yet they're often rare and — consequently — precious.

I've looked after various pets before — once, three cats and a bearded dragon — but Matilda's cat is my favourite.

Kevin is a ragdoll, with a thick, fluffy white coat and mesmerising blue eyes. He's not the kind of cat that will sit on my lap or needs to have one paw on me at any time. His affection is less tactile, but no less powerful.

Kevin was a lifeline

Over the week of Kevin's stay, his routine became mine, something consistent and reliable, when my body and mind are neither.

There are numerous benefits of pet-ownership for mental health, particularly for people, like me, who live with mental illness. Perhaps the most obvious is the sense of companionship they provide.

For me, at the loneliest time of the year, Kevin was a lifeline.

Kevin didn't care that I walked with a limp, that my legs spasmed or that I napped almost as much as he did.

All he wanted was clean litter, food and drink, chin scratches and toys, which I could happily provide.

Even as my thoughts returned again and again to the notion that the world would be better off without me, Kevin's presence proved that untrue. His world was undeniably better because I was in it.

His social courage inspired mine

Pets can also be conducive to social connection.

Unlike me, Kevin was not intimidated by unfamiliar people. When my uncle and cousin visited, he trotted up to them, sniffing them curiously. Kevin began to purr as soon as they picked him up.

His courage — though some might call it recklessness — inspired my own.

I reached out to my friends when I needed to, sometimes just to send a photo of or anecdote about Kevin. They responded, with phone calls or messages or emojis, each one an affirmation that I exist as part of a bright and beautiful constellation.

He coaxed me of my apartment

I could happily hide from the world in times of anxiety and isolation, but Kevin proved a keen explorer.

Though he didn't require the level of exercise a dog would, he often meowed at the front and balcony doors. So I purchased a leash and took him for short walks.

He wouldn't go very far before deciding it was time for a rest, a feeling to which I could relate.

But during our adventures, I exchanged greetings with my neighbours, many of whom stopped to admire Kevin's cuteness.

I inevitably returned from our sojourns with a renewed sense of wellbeing.

A two-way favour

"Thank you for letting me look after him," I said to Matilda near the end of Kevin's time with me.

She was confused. "You're the one doing me the favour."

And that was true at the start, but Kevin-sitting had undoubtedly become a reciprocal arrangement.

My next pet-sitting adventure is scheduled for October, with two cats and an energetic dog called Franklin.

Laura Pettenuzzo (she/her) is a disabled writer living on Wurundjeri country.