There are some things that, if you’d told me a few years ago, I never would have believed. Moving to Japan, for example. But even that would’ve seemed less unlikely than this: living with a Frenchman and being responsible for two cats.

Well, to be fair, when the Frenchman in question is home, he handles most of it. After all, they’re his cats—adopted from a shelter as kittens with his ex. The ex moved out, I moved in, and since I’m an early riser, I ended up feeding the pair every morning anyway. Plus, I’d usually clean the litter box while I was at it, because nobody wants to sit around in that smell.

But now François is spending three weeks with his family in France, leaving me as the full-time cat caretaker. I’ve done this before—last summer, in fact. But that was a shorter stint, and for some reason, I’ve completely forgotten how I managed it then, which means I did almost zero mental prep for these three weeks. Been there, done that, I thought. Turns out I was wrong.

_{Don’t get me wrong, the two of them (a brother and sister duo: Madame and Boulon, or Kairi and Sora—but we never call them that) are wonderful. They’re sweet, they rarely break things on purpose, and they love attention—well, at least Boulon does. Madame was scared of me for ages.}

François and his ex raised well-behaved cats, but they also turned them into a pair of little divas. These two eat six times a day. (Yes, you read that right: six times!) We start with 10 grams of kibble upon waking, another 10 grams around lunchtime, 10 more at around 4 PM (“goûter!” as the Frenchman would say), and another 10 at 6 PM. Then, when François finishes work around 9 PM, they get half a pouch of wet food. And finally, at bedtime, the other half.

The last time I took care of these two fluffy babies, I thought, “Yeah, no way, they’re just getting a whole pouch of wet food at once. No weighing, no scooping that stinky mess!” I tried that again this time, but it quickly caused issues. There are basically two possible scenarios, and neither is ideal:

1. Madame, the slower eater, gets pushed aside by her brother, who ends up eating about one and a half portions, leaving her hungry, or
2. Madame eats faster than is good for her to keep her food from being stolen, only to throw everything up—at which point Boulon thinks, “Oh well, food is food!” and eats the vomit…

In short, the feeding schedule exists for a reason. Of course, we deviate from it sometimes, like when we’re out all day. In those cases, we’ll give their normal morning portion, followed by the rest of the meals in quick succession. But you have to plan that carefully because if you’ve already given them all their kibble and come home earlier than expected, they’ll suddenly have “no memory” of being fed and will meow your ears off for more.

The first week and a half, taking care of the cats felt really overwhelming. Because of my autism, I struggle with switching tasks. I prefer to work in a non-stop hyperfocus. In the mornings, I often don’t know how much energy I’ll have for the rest of the day, so I can’t plan if or when I’ll go out, or for how long. I chose to live in a tiny apartment intentionally, where everything is within reach. But now, my days were suddenly filled with interruptions and extra steps, all of which brought extra sensory input. (Think wet hands from washing dishes/washing hands and the strong smell of cat food…)

Waking up with cats is no longer just waking up; it starts with being meowed awake (closing the bedroom door doesn’t work—they’ll just scratch or meow at the door). Then, you wash the bowls from the day before (and while you’re at it, you might as well tackle whatever else is on the counter), dry them, weigh out two 10-gram portions of food (and if the bag of food is empty, you also have to cut open a new one, sort the packaging for recycling, throw it in the utility room trash, chase the cats out of the utility room…), replace their two water bowls, check and clean the litter box, and refill the humidifier’s water tank.

By the time I’ve made my sandwich, I’ve gone through ten steps. I like working at Starbucks in the mornings, but now, before I leave, I have to think: Am I going somewhere else afterward? How many extra kibble portions should I leave? Earlier this week, I thought I’d be back quickly but got caught up in my work. Suddenly, it was 1 PM, then 1:30 PM… I had to head home. While working at home, Boulon meowed my ears off for attention. Of course, I couldn’t give in, but to avoid going completely insane from his sad meows, I moved my little drawer unit closer to my desk so I could pet him with one hand while I was coding.

These past few weeks, it feels like feeding the cats, scooping poop, and working are my only daily activities. And while I’d made a mental list of all the things I wanted to get done around the house before François gets back, I haven’t managed to do any of it.

When I shared this on my Instagram stories recently, I got a lot of well-meaning advice—automatic feeders, chip-enabled food bowls, and who knows what else. Sweet suggestions, but those automatic feeders wouldn’t stand a chance with these clever cats, and they wouldn’t stop Boulon from eating everything either. And those chips? Well, they’re not my cats, so I can’t make such a drastic change on my own. What I did do was buy two slow-feeder bowls with little ridges. At least now they eat a bit more slowly.

“If you really want to get away, you should just ask Esther!” François assured me. Esther is a fellow Dutchie who occasionally looks after our cats. But instead of leaving and letting Esther take care of the little ones, I invited her over for tea, and we ended up playing with the cats together.

Because the difference between this time and last summer is that the cats have completely enchanted me. I remember always telling François that the cats would be just fine if we stayed out for a night. Now, I hear myself sounding like him: “But… the poor kitties!”

Madame, who was always a bit scared of me and would freeze up or quickly walk away when I tried to pet her, approached me one evening. I was slouched on the couch, watching TV, when she let out a little meow. “But you just ate?” I said. She jumped onto the couch and cautiously placed a paw on my chest. Then another. She sniffed my face briefly, and then, ever so carefully, climbed onto me and lay down. She only ever does this with François.

We could, of course, be cynical and say she was just trying to butter up the kibble provider. But by now, she wants cuddles almost every evening. She makes these adorable little sounds and looks me straight in the eyes. Every night, she sleeps on my bed. (Preferably in the crook of my knee, between my legs, or in any spot that makes it impossible for me to move, lol.)

In short: I’ve been recruited. From now on, I’m officially a cat person.