I used to love her. I do love her. I love her sometimes…most of the time…
My friend and I bought her together when we were roommates. We noticed right away that this excitable, furry ball was quite different from other cats in that she really, really needed to be around people. We considered her constant need for attention kind of comforting, like it was nice to be needed.
I took her with me when I got married. My husband, who had never been a pet person (let alone a cat person) was against the idea but didn’t put up much of a fight because I loved her and we were a packaged deal.
Now, often I find myself veering towards his side.
Oh, sure, I’m still a cat person. And I will still try to pet every cat that I see. And I love the way cats are so easy to care for. And cats are cheap. And cats clean themselves. And cats kill rodents and spiders and bugs that fly. And I love that my cat sleeps at the foot of our bed. And the kid loves loves loves her.
Okay. But Lassie the Cat is on my last nerve. The next time she scratches at the expensive couch while looking up at us like “See how I’m doing this? What are you gonna do about it? How are you going to stop me?”, barfs up onto the white carpet because she swallowed a hair elastic, gallops up and down the hallway with alarming speed only to ram into the banister posts causing what must be severe head trauma, tracks her litter out of the box and down the hall, sniffs at the baby like she’s tuna, puts her paws in our drink glasses, meows incessantly at her food bowl even though it’s full or tries to escape her townhouse prison by making a run for it when the front door is open and our backs are turned I SIMPLY CAN’T BE HELD RESPONSIBLE FOR WHAT I MIGHT DO.
Be warned, Lassie.