Thursday, February 03, 2005

I Would Like to Eat my Cat

Once upon a time, I went to my sister Sabrina’s house and saw a framed picture of her cat on the refrigerator. I thought this was endlessly funny and teased her mercilessly. Who takes a picture of their cat? And then, who would actually put it on the fridge? It’s just a cat, not a friend or a baby!

Now I must eat my words. Although I don’t have a picture of Cat on the fridge, I’ve taken at least 10 photos. I’ve posted one on my other blog (sort of an online version of the refrigerator photo gallery). I torture my coworkers almost daily with “cute cat stories.” I think about her constantly. I want to buy her everything in the kitty toy section at the store. I AM IN LOVE WITH MY CAT!

I never thought this would happen to me. I’ve always been an anti-cat person. We had a cat growing up, but she was not cuddly or very cute. In fact, I lived in terror of the nights my mother would bring her in and set her on my bed. If I moved any part of my body beneath the blankets, the cat would attack it with claws and teeth. Later, we got a dog and she stole my heart. I kicked the cat to the curb and decided that I must be a dog person.

When we moved into our house, I wanted a cuddly pet – the fish just wasn’t doing it for me. I considered a dog or a bunny or a kitten, but, in the end, an adult cat sounded like the least work and potential destruction. Mike and I got Cleo (a.k.a Cat) from one of his professors. I didn’t love her at first; I felt rather detached. In fact, when we thought she had run away, after having her for only a few days, I was sad only because I felt irresponsible. Now, she is a part of the family.

If you read Suburban Bliss, you know that Melissa often speaks of swallowing her children whole. I’d like to swallow my cat.


At 9:39 PM, Blogger Scott in Washington said...

My parents have a special talent for breeding especially large, vocal, bitchy, eunuch male cats that live extraordinarily long lives and make their displeasure well known. The cat that lived there most of my life was known to whup up on an errant child with bites and pincer movement claw strikes. His name was Farook and he lived to be 16 (we rank and file called him kitty). Their current gray tom is nine years old and named Teddy (after a former president and has a certain charteristic girth. He weighs in at 17 pounds). Thomas, be that he is a wee bit disrespectful around our smaller kitties has learned to give Mr. Roosevelt a respectfully wide birth but I still have private consultations with the prime executive. I tell that kitty that come the revolution he'll be the first Dennis in the stock pot. Thomas agrees.


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