Now hang on one cotton-pickin’ minute! There is nothing in the world so velvety soft, so warm, so wonderfully play-withable as my dog’s ears. Surpassed only by my cat’s ears. The difference is that my dog will put her head in my lap and let me play with her ears for hours, with a expression of slightly drooly ecstasy. The cat, on the other hand, just runs away.
This is what my cats do. Are there cats that don’t? Can I do a trade-in?
Anyway, fight it all you want. Eventually the toxoplasmosis protozoa will burrow deep enough into your brain that you turn into this. It’s easier if you just give in early. Don’t fight it… don’t fight it… don’t fight…
I am sorry, but there is not a chance in hell that you will be able to remain cold and aloof towards your girlfriend’s cats. As a longtime animal lover/owner (cats, dogs, hamsters, lizards, fish, snails, butterflies–you get the picture) I have a particular theory about cats: due to their instinctual aloofness, they are able to immediately hone in on other animals’ coldness towards them. However, since cats believe they are the supreme beings (blame the ancient Egyptians if you must–their ancestors were worshiped as gods after all), cats must be the ones who decide the nature of the relationship with whomever they interact, be it man or beast. Therefore YOU can’t decide to stay away from them because you want to, THEY are the ones who decide whether or not they want you to be around.
While this behavior sounds manipulative, controlling or perhaps even downright evil (hey, they weren’t accused of being witches’ familiars for nothing!) this feline intuition can in fact help others. Case in point: back when I was 12 years old, I used to volunteer at an animal hospital. One day, a little stray kitten was dropped off and put into quarantine. Since this cat had lived in an alley all 6 weeks of her life, one of my jobs was to get her used to being handled by humans. Needless to say, I fell in love and begged my parents to let me take her home.
Now, my parents were not cat people; actually, the more appropriate term would be cat-haters. I had spent years wishing, begging, pleading, for a cat. Each year at Christmas/Chanukah, I would ask for only one present instead of a multitude of holiday gifts–a kitten. My parents refused me at every turn, “We can’t get a cat, your father is allergic,” which was, as it turns out, a whopping lie. “We can’t, the dog would eat it,” which left me confused since our dog managed to make friends with our hamster, who I thought was a much likelier candidate for doggy chow.
This time though, my parents finally relented for several reasons. 1) I had recently discovered that my father was in fact NOT allergic to cats after seeing him play with and take care of one of his friends’ cats for two-weeks. Bad parents, bad. 2) Not only had I caught them in a lie, I also had logic on my side by pointing out that,“Muffin didn’t eat Hammie (the hamster–yeah, yeah, how original), so I really doubt she’s going to eat a kitten.” Sans these excuses, they agreed to let me bring home the kitten, but only for a one-week probation period. This leads us to the final reason, 3) They smugly thought that our somewhat crotchety, very territorial, rather run-down 13-year old, terrier mutt, Muffin and a bouncing kitten, would NEVER get along and after this experiment failed, I would finally shut-up about this whole cat-nonsense. After all, cats and dogs can never be friends, EVERYBODY knows that, no? And, even if dogs and cats could live together, it would take a lot more than a week since Muffin was too old for such shenanigans and old dogs can’t learn new tricks, right?
Remember, this was B.I., Before Internet, so all my poor, poor parents had to work off of were bad cliches. I, on the other hand, had spent the past year working in a vet hospital learning a thing or two about animals, a fact they had clearly not taken into account. After all, how could their 12 year old daughter know more than them on a subject other than video games and caboodles–hee, hee!
The first night was rough: Muffin was cornering the kitten and barking, the kitten, was scared out of her mind and hissing and my parents were smiling at how well their plan was working. However, by the end of the week, Muffin and our newly-named cat, Gizmo, were like a friggin’ Disney cartoon! They played together, napped together, and when one of them “called out,” the other came bounded from across the house to see what was the matter. Muffin was completely re-energized; the previously sedentary, ailing dog was happy, bouncy and acting like she was 5-years old again. It also was great for Gizmo since she got all her crazy, kitten energy out (you know, the type that can sometimes drive humans a bit batty) by playing tag and wrestling with Muffin, who was 6 times her size. My mother was none-too-pleased.
“Well,” she said rather annoyed, “that cat is staying downstairs and downstairs only. I don’t want to ever see the critter.” Obviously, my mother had much to learn about cats and how well they listen to commands!
Every chance Gizmo got, she went upstairs, whether she managed to somehow squeeze through the side of the baby gate or get it down with Muffin’s help. Before long, due to her remarkable jumping talents, she was skilled enough to easily jump over the now totally useless contraption. My mother was truly exasperated “I told you to keep the damn cat downstairs, dammit, downstairs!”
In the house I spent most of my childhood, the upstairs was my parents’ domain. We lived in a two-floor townhouse, where the entrance was on the top floor, along with the formal living room/dining room, the kitchen, a guest bathroom, my parents’ bedroom and most importantly, my parents’ den, where my mother spent most of her free time relaxing in her Lazy Boy recliner. Gizmo would try to come into the den and make nice with my mother every chance she could and every time my mother got out of her chair, she would come back to find the cat sitting in her seat. My mom would always yell and chase Gizmo out as soon as she saw her lounging on the dark blue velour chair as if she owned it, covering it with white, grey-green, tortoiseshell cat hair.
My mother’s perpetually annoyed state with the animal situation drastically changed about six months after we got Gizmo. One day, my mother slipped on some ice and herniated a disc. She was in a lot of pain and all she could do was sit in her chair all day long, with nothing to do but watch T.V., read People magazine and wait for someone, ANYONE to come home. However, she made a new best friend–whenever she was feeling really down, upset, in pain, who was there trying to comfort her: Gizmo. Gizmo changed her schedule completely (no small feat for a cat–they hate change after all), switched playtime hours with Muffin to late evening/nighttime or early in the morning so she could sit on the armrest of the Lazy Boy recliner for hours on end. Finally, after about a week or so of this she was not only sitting on the armrest but laying across my mother’s lap, all day long. It took awhile for my mom to get better, but long before she was able to move around freely again, Gizmo was her “baby.” Unfortunately for my mother, this was only the first time she had back trouble and there were going to be many more months over the next decade that she was going to have to spend her days in that chair. Thankfully though, she always had Gizmo right there beside her, who always knew when she needed love comforting and when she just needed someone there beside her.
Once Gizmo won over my formerly cat-hating mom, she ended up spending her days in accordance with a very full and busy schedule. After waking up and playing with Muffin, she would then “help” my father get ready for work. My dad was awake and out the door before the rest of us even woke-up. He spent this quiet time in the house, holding conversations with Gizmo, who would chirp and meow back to him in reply, follow him around while he shaved, brushed his teeth, got his briefcase, and then they would eat breakfast together until she sent him out the door for the day. After that she would play with Muffin again until my mom woke up and they hung out all day at the house, or my grandmother’s who lived across the courtyard. Gizmo was a regular guest, with her own litterbox and bowls over there. Once everyone came home, it was Muffin time again and she always ended her days curled up under my covers keeping my feet warm while I read and then finally went to sleep.
Gizmo has been dead for 9 years now, but she did a lot in the 10 years she was alive. We know for a fact, that if it weren’t for Gizmo, Muffin would not have lived as long as she did nor would she have had such a great time the last few years of her life; she had Gizmo to look forward to everyday. To this day, my mother says she would have gone nuts if it weren’t for that cat cuddling with her all day long, always trying to give her extra love and comfort on the really bad days and sometimes just being there. And finally, she was the first cat, the cat that converted my whole family. Twenty years ago I was the only cat-lover living in a household of cat-haters, (which also included my sister who was fully and completely a dog person). Now, in the year 2010, between our three households, there are a total of SIX cats. And this is all because of Gizmo, the Gizmeister, the Princess, who “ran” our household for 10 years and brought a bit of happiness and comfort to a bunch of stalwart, stubborn, never-will-they-change-their-minds cat haters. 
Wow, I apologize for the length of this ridiculous tribute and needlessly revealing the source of my great cat-love, but trust me, if my mom is now a total cat-lady, you are screwed man!
From The Crazy Cat Lady-in-the-Making,
SamAnn
Tamerlane and Terraplane (twins, huh?),
I’m sure you take an opinionated rant for what it’s worth. My dear departed cats would run to me when I got home from a longer-than-usual leave, and I loved it. But the cat version of affection is hugely more palatable than the doggie style (did that sound skeewy or what?). A cat appears from nowhere, sounds a soft hello-meouw, and brushes his body lightly against my shin, waiting for a quick scratch behind the cheek before scurrying off to go rolling around on the living room mat for my amusement. With a dog, I feel like I’m tackling a drunken teen basketballer trying to pass me dribbling: bouncing left and right, up and down while making a terrible racket, just waiting for any reaction on my behalf to have permission to lose it all and basically thrash the place. Again, I’m rolling in hyperbole, but this is pretty accurate, subjectively.
Let’s put it this way: If I didn’t have two small kids and just enough time for even them, I’d have a cat in a heartbeat. If someone offered me 1000 bucks per month plus expenses for living with a dog, I’d pass without blinking an eye.
Saw this post and had to add one thing - I’ve always believed the very people that say they “hate” dogs or “hate” cats have never had one of their very own to love and more importantly to be loved by.
For those posting about the demands they feel dogs make on their life and time - the love, loyalty and devotion my little dog gives me far outweighs anything I could ever do to deserve it. I’m not worthy… for that matter, are any of us?
I grew up with many cats and dogs as pets and here’s my experience with them - cats want food, water and a little attention, period. Doesn’t matter who gives it to them. Yeah, they might miss you a little bit but you know that the real feelings are all one sided.
Dogs, however, want their person they love best with them and will miss you desperately when you’re away, maybe not eating and drinking much until you come back. They truly love you and don’t care who knows it.