I’m permanently estranged from my family.
Here’s what cats and dogs have taught me. by Lindsay Costello From etymonline.com: estrange (v.) late 15c., from French estrangier “to alienate,” from Vulgar Latin *extraneare “to treat as a stranger,” from Latin extraneus “foreign, from without” (see strange).  I am strange, I am alien, I am a stranger, I am without. Or maybe my family is. It’s difficult to say. Since 2019, I’ve been estranged from my entire family. I won’t bore (or titillate) you with the details of my decision to distance myself from them, but visualize a constellation of generational traumas—nearly every type represented—and you’ll have a general idea. Estrangement is, as the literature says, a last resort. It’s the truth. I never wanted this, but now I’m freer for it. On most days, the peace of estrangement is one of the most powerful presences in my life. But during the chaotic final months of the year, it begins to feel like a gargantuan gaping wound that anyone—friends, coworkers, baristas—might spot if I’m not careful. People tend to flip out, or at least stare a little, when they see a gargantuan gaping wound.  So I don’t discuss it. I listen intently as those around me describe their family’s political beliefs and their dad’s rude comments and their brother’s whatever-what-have-you and I share little in response. I frown. I say, “Ugh, that sucks.” And I do mean it. My experience always feels different, though. For one thing, my calendar is suspiciously open during the holidays. This serves an interesting and unexpected purpose: As those around me saddle up for travel, family dinners, and gift exchanges, I’m available for pet sitting. The texts roll in. Yes, I sometimes feel a knee-jerk sting when this happens, in the way that we all have those insidious automatic thoughts that have squished around in our brains for years or decades. You know the ones. Therapists and Instagram graphics attempt to unpack them with counter-thoughts: I am worthy. I am enough. And so on. But those few tenacious thoughts remain. The neurons fire and wire. Mine are: I don’t have a family. Everyone else does, except me. When I type that out, there is no resentment, just layers of sadness buried in a cavity that my partner Jeremy and my cat Spaghetti still can’t fill. Intellectually, I know these thoughts aren’t true. Many people are estranged from their families, and I do have a “chosen family”—I have Jeremy! Spaghetti! A small circle of friends! But without any biological family members in my life, there’s still a sharp loneliness, pointed and pronounced, that never goes away. The edges of it become crisper during the holidays.  Back to the petsitting, though. Over time, I’ve noticed that the animals I form bonds with might also have something to teach me about navigating estrangement. (For the record, I’m not a mental health professional. But stay with me here.) My first Christmas pet sitting charge was Fiddle, a large and docile orange man whose primordial pouch swayed like a porch swing as he strode aimlessly across the house. From Fiddle, I gleaned the first of many lessons on connection and self-preservation. 1. Don’t google your parents. (Or your sister, or your ex, or whoever it is you’ve made a concerted effort to get away from.)  a. Animals can’t google, especially sweet, simple-minded angels like Fiddle. This one is a no-brainer. Googling your parents, who will, undoubtedly, still have no internet presence, is the quickest ticket to a night-long spiral. Plus, there are few things on this planet more depressing than searching online for your deadbeat dad’s handyman business. Don’t do it. Then came Frank, a dapple dachshund with dark eyes and ears that flapped out like soft wings when he flopped over on his back in the living room. Frank is a snuggly dog who asks that one hand be petting him at all times. He also likes to wake with the sunrise. 2. Make your own rituals and stick to them with dogged (ugh) determination. a. One year, curled up in a pit of sadness, I asked an estrangement-related subreddit for advice on what to do during the holidays. I feel for you, elderberry42289, some kind soul wrote. I recommend finding a routine and sticking to that for your sanity. Also, could you come up with something cool to do every holiday season? Something all your own? b. This message was reaffirmed by Frank, who sticks to his rituals and appreciates all the sensory pleasures life has to offer. If Frank were a human, I think he would take himself to the movies and a fancy dinner every Christmas day. Before I met Dorothy, I thought I’d experienced the full spectrum of anger, marinating in all the emotion had to offer. This was not true. Dorothy’s capacity for disdain topped anything I’d ever felt before. She is a one-eared cat who hisses at nothing—the television, my hand in a bag of chips, the sky. She is also dark and slinky, making her contemptuous behavior seem kind of cool. 3. Go outside.  a. I knew better than to argue with Dorothy, who insisted upon patrolling the outside world despite hostile forces like coyotes and cars in the neighborhood. And so out she went, and came back, still intact (minus the missing ear).  b. Unfortunately, the news is true. Going for a walk (or even, like, to the mailbox) helps when those insidious automatic thoughts start to conspire against you. Just do it, you’ll be fine. Here’s a lesson I’ve taken from every pet I’ve cared for: 4. Eat whatever the fuck you want.  a. You’re (probably) not a licensed nutritionist, you’re someone with family trauma who is attempting to navigate the holiday season. Eating whatever, whenever, is clearly what dogs dream of. You are not a dog. You are an adult with some funds and a ride to Safeway. Act accordingly. And finally, 5. Make sure that you aren’t alone. Alternate strategy: believe that you’re not alone. In a season that emphasizes togetherness and companionship, I am one person musing on the tiny universes of cats and dogs. Maybe these reflections seem a little trite, even pathetic. But I don’t think that they are.  The entire objective of pet sitting is to care for small guys who cannot care for themselves. Central to that relationship is an applicable truth: When I am experiencing something emotionally traumatic, I can treat myself with special attention, too.  Sometimes that means asking for help or camaraderie. But maybe I am not in the mood to be social. Maybe I’m having a Dorothy day. That’s fine—because even when I’m isolated and furious and sad, I’m not alone. Not really. Embedded in that core belief is every creature that’s trusted me.