Would You Sell Your Cat for $1,000,000?
Probably not a decision any of us will ever have to make
I don’t know why the question popped into my head last night. I was in bed, trying to fall asleep, and Sweet Zombie was snuggled up next to me under the blanket. He was soft and purring and perfect. If I could crawl inside a sound and live there, it would be the sound of Sweet Zombie’s purr.
For some reason, my brain decided to ask, “Would you sell him for a million dollars?”
“No. Absolutely not.” But then I had to think about it because a million dollars is a lot of money.
Ultimately, my answer is still no — because there will never be another Sweet Zombie. He’s sweet and goofy and possibly a little insane. If cats have IQs, his is pretty low. But I love him so much, and he loves me so much. I am the center of his world.
My family would be so mad at me. “You gave up a million dollars for that cat?” No one else loves Sweet Zombie.
Most of the other cats would be mad at me, too. In fact, Winnie would sell Sweet Zombie for $1. Or maybe she would pay someone to take him.
Would I sell any of the others for a million dollars? Maybe Scooter — because we haven’t really bonded yet and because he’s having a hard time fitting into the household. But it would totally depend on why the person wanted to buy him. (What kind of person would pay that kind of money for a cat that I rescued off the streets?)
Hypothetically, let’s say it’s just some really eccentric, rich, old dude who wants a cat and likes to pay extravagantly for everything. Then, sure, he can have Scooter because Scooter would have a better life living in a home where he and Fat Zombie don’t fight. In fact, I would probably give Scooter to the right person if someone came along and wanted him — so long as I could be sure his life would be better with them than with me.
What about Ebenezer? He hides under my bed most of the day because he hates Sweet Zombie so much (and because he’s having a hard time adjusting to the loss of his girlfriend Agatha, who died in October). Sweet Zombie picks on Ebbie, even though Ebenezer is twice his size. I love Ebbie, and Ebbie loves me. I guess it would depend on what I thought was best for him. Will the rich, eccentric dude give him all the love and attention he deserves? Will the rich, eccentric dude react badly when Ebenezer’s murder switch gets flipped and he bites him?
No, I don’t think I could sell Ebenezer for any amount of money. It took me a week to win his love back when he was a little half-tame kitten hanging out in my yard — a week of sitting outside, throwing cheese at him. I finally got him to play with a cat teaser. When he was close enough, I turned it around and used the handle to scratch behind his ear. That was the day Ebenezer fell in love with me. He wouldn’t want to live with a rich, eccentric dude. He wants to live with me. I am the love of his life.
And the others? No. They love me so much. They wouldn’t be happy with anyone else. They’re my family. Their absence would leave a really big hole. Imagine Winnie, Fat Zombie, or the Muffin Man living with someone else. They would spend their days looking out the window, waiting for me to come and take them home.
I guess it really boils down to whether a person’s cats are their pets or their family. There are probably people out there who think it would be crazy to turn down such an offer. But I suspect true cat lovers would completely understand turning it down. Right now, Ebenezer is on my lap, purring. I scratched along his check and stroked his back just a little — with Ebbie, too much will earn me a bite. He gave me a soft little kiss on my hand. This moment, with Ebbie purring on my lap, looking up at me in adoration, is a treasure in itself. Moreover, I have a responsibility to this cat — to all my cats — to give them the best lives I possibly can. And for most of them, that best life is with me.
