When singer/songwriter Rachael Yamagata was growing up, she went to all-girls school that she says warped her into the relationship-obsessed woman she’s become, at least in the lyrics of her songs. She began singing with a funk-crazed dance band called Bumpus while she was in college studying theater. While touring and recording with Bumpus, she was also writing confessional, deeply emotional songs that didn’t fit the band’s format. Happenstance, her first solo album, was a folk/pop charmer. Her tunes have appeared on The O.C., The L Word, Grey’s Anatomy and Alias, and Ray LaMontagne, Ryan Adams and Conor Oberst all expressed admiration for her vocal style. Having just issued Chesapeake (Frankenfish), Yamagata will be guest editing magnetmagazine.com all week. Read our brand new Q&A with her.
Yamagata: I write this one knowing I’m entering “she’s a freak” territory, but I can’t not list them. I love my cats. They are my best friends. Yes, I said it. I said the thing that makes you think of the girl who sits alone and has no human friends and just talks to the animals and all that, but again, I do not care. Cats will not fake their love for you and will not hesitate to withdraw if they are upset with you. Keeps you on your toes. They always know when something is wrong, and you can count on extra snuggles when you are feeling down. I have had a slew of cats over the years, and when they die I cry the uncontrollable five-year-old tears that include heaving sobs and snot and everything unsightly, but I do not care. I have had burials to say goodbye with vintage suitcases and my favorite blankets, pictures and symbols of anything said cat loved, and I frequently dream of not being able to save them in natural disasters. A psychic once told me I had a cat-like nature and I felt … articulated.
I found Jack underneath a car in Utah, Christmas Eve about 12 years back. This scrawny and matted cutie was meowing so loud in the hotel parking lot of some highway hotel that I actually thought there were kids playing a joke out a window and just shrieking. He wouldn’t budge though, and try as I may would not leave underneath this car. I went upstairs to bed and couldn’t stop thinking about him and returned downstairs only to find him having crawled to the front door and peering in. With only a vending machine at my disposal, I grabbed some Doritos (they’re my favorite; maybe he’s a fan) and opened the door saying, “If you come in, we’ll do this.” And in he walked, and my life has never been the same. From Salt Lake to Chicago to NYC, this cat has been with me. He is a lug. He is a blue-eyed, cross-eyed Himalayan lug. He watches over the others and is quick to break up a fight or give a cleaning to them. He blends in with many a blanket and loves to go outside and then sleep the day away in various nooks. He is giant now, more like a football, and I can’t imagine not having had him in my life.
Moshi is a little diva. She’s all white save for a few caramel spots and tail. She plays fetch and prefers Chinese cookie wrappers to go after. She likes anything that crinkles. Moshi is less a snuggler and more of a walk across your face or Jack’s belly without regard to anything except where she wants to go. Vets have said, “She has quite a personality,” as they are struggling not to be ripped to shreds. My ex rescued Moshi from a shelter, and she had just gone through surgery, all shaved and a mess. She’s about two, I think, and already had a litter at some point. The little trollop. I refused to give her back after she stayed in the woods for me, and the ex got over it because he preferred snuggle cats anyway (one of which I found on the street and deposited into his apartment as a trade; they are in love). Moshi is in love with Jack, and he puts up with her shit on a daily basis. They sleep side by side and give each other baths, and the longest one I’ve caught on camera lasted five minutes.
Hoover. Oh, Hoover. My friends call him Dumpster. Hoover picked my mother and later moved in with me. He’s got a pug face almost like he’d been punched or something and was the scruffiest of all. Somehow he’s cleaned himself up and now is the most pristine of all of them. He came a few winters ago and returned on a nightly basis for the food left for him. Eventually, the winter became too much, and he entered the garage for a week’s worth of sleep and fancy feast. Now he lives with the others, and it’s three’s company. I secretly worry he feels left out from Jack and Moshi’s love affair. He swats at Moshi and doesn’t have a tremendous amount to do with Jack, but somehow they make it work.
So, yeah, cats. I love dogs, but I have more experience with felines. They’ve lasted with me more than most of my romantic relationships, and I even have the number of a pet healer in my cell phone. There I said it, and I don’t care.
Video after the jump.
