Well, cats, obviously.
I was always a cat girl. My first cat was a Siamese named Tiger, when I was two years old.
We went to the ASPCA and found another little girl when I was in first grade. I put my finger on the cage, and she wrapped her paw around my little finger. My father was not happy I called her Muffin. I thought it was a very classy name. Muffin was followed by Crystal: another name of pure class.
I had always been afraid of dogs. One of my most vivid memories is a dog, who probably meant well, leaping up on my stroller. I felt incredibly betrayed when my brother, who always wanted a dog, was given a golden retriever puppy. Oh, don’t get me wrong–Maggie was a lovely dog–but I’ve never been one for drool, massive shedding, and unfettered poop bombs in the yard. I will also admit to being somewhat jealous when my mother, who threw me out of the house at the age of nineteen, catered to Maggie’s, and then Pennie’s, every need and desire with unbridled joy.
I lost my beloved Eleanor Roosevelt Rigby last July, after almost twenty years of companionship. Eleanor was a founding member of the National Cat Network, which seeks to spy on and take out cat haters like my husband.
My husband is a cat hater no more. He adores our cats, the gigantic Buster and the tiny Amelia. Amelia, especially, is his girl. “Hello, Sweetpea!” he says when he comes home, ignoring his wife.
Don’t misunderstand. I love my niece and nephew, Rosie and Bubba, the finest St. Bernards you’ll ever want to meet. I just don’t want to own them.
