Fun fact: Studies have found that pets can help develop positive social behaviors in autistic children.
“Why can’t you be like everyone else? You’re weird. I don’t want to talk to you.” Those statements had been ingrained in my mind for so long that I just accepted them as part of the daily life of someone who has Asperger’s. As I entered high school and college, I could feel the eyes of strangers intently locked on me, waiting for me to make that one awkward expression or statement that made absolutely no sense. At home, it wasn’t much better. I went to bed confused, even frightened, by this condition that had taken hold of me and had no intention of ever leaving.
In August 2011, my life forever changed when I was offered a position with the federal government. It was the chance of a lifetime, one I had imagined for so long when I was a student. I was fascinated by the history of our country and the workings of Congress. Whenever I pictured the heartbeat of our democracy, one city came to the forefront — Washington, D.C. I closed my eyes and visualized what it must have been like to be part of the Continental Congress, to have your name called as you were asked to sign what would become the greatest and most important document ever created. In my eyes, it was not a privilege, but an honor to be living and working in one of the most special cities anywhere.
The first day I found myself on the Metro, traveling to the office, I could hardly believe it was happening! In the crowd of well-dressed commuters, I was one of them. However, I began to face the frustrations of being an “Aspie” more each day. I attended social events such as speed dating and black-tie galas, only to discover that instead of fitting in I was standing out in all the wrong ways. I’d return home feeling bitterly disappointed and tormented, asking why I had to be different. I made small talk at work, but still found it a challenge to maintain a steady conversation — until the day one of my co-workers posed a question: “Have you considered adopting a pet?”
It was like a thunderbolt out of a clear blue sky. When I was growing up on Long Island, we had tried to welcome pets into our household, but failed miserably twice. The first time was with a gray Labrador named Jason, who loved my brother and me, but not my parents — so he was given away. The tears I cried that day could have filled the Chesapeake Bay. Three years later, we adopted a Basset Hound named Barney with the cutest floppy ears and a sad expression. When we were eating, he’d put his jaw on our knees and stare at us with droopy eyes. How could we not love him? But one night, my grandmother came over, and Barney decided to eat her pink slippers for dinner. Two days later, he was returned to the shelter.
I knew that animals were excellent for “pet therapy,” but I just wasn’t sure if I was ready for the challenge of ownership. What I did know, though, is that I was hurting and alone, with little social options, and feeling like the color in my world was slowly being erased each day. On a spur of the moment, I called home and announced my intentions. After being told “good luck and do your research,” I was off and running.
I didn’t know what type of cat I wanted, but I did know I wanted a black cat, for a number of reasons. First, being a person who has Asperger’s and a stutter, I had known all my life what it was like to be an outcast and feel unwanted. In our culture, people often feel black cats bring bad luck, so the odds of them being adopted are lower. Many shelters even offer incentives for adopting them. Many people also consider black cats to be ugly, and I had had more than my fair share of days feeling that way.
When I walked into the animal shelter, an associate’s eyes lit up when I said I wanted a black cat. She took me in the back to meet two: Frederica and Abracadabra. Frederica seemed very disinterested and did not like being petted, which automatically eliminated her. But there was something about Abracadabra — his eyes were hypnotizing, and as soon as he walked out of the cage, he spent three minutes rubbing my leg. I knew he was the one.
After my references were checked I was able to bring him home. I was so excited that I even put up a “Welcome Home” banner, even though he was completely oblivious. I changed Abracadabra’s name to Lucky. Over the next few days, I began to notice that my personality was changing. I became more outgoing. I would ask for what I wanted instead of settling for things. My stuttering became less severe, and I didn’t care about it as often as I once did. I learned that I am okay, and so are others. Although I found out later that my cat had crystals in his urine and would need a special diet the rest of his life, it was a small price to pay for what he was giving me.
Lucky tested my patience, as all cats do. He’d jump on the television and the kitchen table, and chew the blinds, which led to him being the recipient of some squirts from my water gun. One day, though, when the perfect storm came together, everything was brought into perspective. I couldn’t speak coherently, and I was having the worst day relating to people. I came home and went to bed early. As I drifted off to dreamland, I felt Lucky jump on my back and close his eyes, purring gently. He loved me, and I knew things would work out.
I’ve been asked if I rescued my cat. The truth is, we rescued each other.
~Steven M. Kaufman
