In which I take myself on a date to a cat cafe.

I have a complicated history with felines.

Once upon a time in college, I briefly adopted two cats.  Their previous owners had just been evicted and more or less begged me to take them.  I naively welcomed the newly homeless animals, christening them "Dmitri" and "Alyosha" after my two favorite Karamazov brothers.  This arrangement lasted approximately 24 hours at which point the custodian saved my sanity (and very likely my good-standing status with my residence hall) but offering to keep them at his home.

Glares for days

The dating pool at my university was dolefully slim; despite my failure as a cat-parent, I'd always taken a wry sense of comfort in the idea of abandoning men altogether for a life of fiction and felines.  (Besides, being miserable, poor, and cynical as a student are unquestionably en vogue).

Last Monday--years and continents away from college--I skipped my aerobics dance class and took a bus to Seongnamdong.  I couldn't remember the last time I'd taken myself out for a me-date.

Neither of the movie theatres were playing the film I wanted at the time I needed.  I looked around for an alternative activity and spotted a cat cafe.  I've been in Korea for nearly a year, but I'd never visited a cat cafe.  I liked the idea of absently petting a friendly cat while engrossed in the book I'd brought in my bag.  Smiling at this thought, I descended the steps to the basement cafe.

If looks could kill...

I recognized that distinct cat smell as soon as I got close enough to remove my shoes and enter the establishment.  I scanned the room, counting no less than 17 cats.  The barista handed me a shrink-wrapped cat treat when I placed my order for a pancake and lemonade and I looked around for a vacant table.  (A table vacant of cats, not people; at this point, I was the only customer).  I nearly sat down at an empty booth before noticing an unmistakable puddle of cat pee.  I sat elsewhere.  No sooner had I ripped open the packaging on the cat treat that a pack of cats swarmed my table.  One cat--claws firmly intact--shoved the others aside to leap onto my table.  I firsthandedly experienced those claws (and gained new appreciation for the term "cat fight") as the pack of felines clambered across my lap and table to brawl over the treat.  At this point, my hopes for an quiet, idyllic experience were ripped to shred by the tiny claws that dug into my pants and the tiny teeth that chomped at my fingers.

Unadulterated loathing

Resentment

Condescension

I moved to a quieter table when my pancake arrived. The cats followed.  Attempting to thwart feline efforts to steal my pancake, I slid down the booth and immediately felt something wet on the back of my pants--remember that puddle of cat pee I'd avoided earlier?  Disgusted, I stood up and finished eating my pancake as quickly as possible. I returned the empty plate to the bewildered barista who wondered why I was leaving so soon. I pointed to my watch, "Bus," I lied.

In theory, cat cafes are charming. In practice, there's too little privacy and too much dander. If I learned anything from my experience at the cat cafe, it's am not cut out to be a cat lady.  I simply don't have what it takes.