Alright, maybe this is moving a bit too fast, but…it’s just…I really like you, and I want to share myself with you. I want you to meet the cats.
Don’t be intimidated. They don’t bite. (That’s a lie.)
When I was in grade 3, my mom let my sister and I adopt cats. Prior to the pair, we had one tabby named Bacall and a black cat named Bogie, but Bogie had already passed away, and Bacall was getting lonely.
Mistoffolees was “mine”, though we all know cats have no true owners, and Shyloh was my sister’s. Misto is named after Magical Mr. Mistoffolees, from the musical Cats, though she is a girl. It was really one of my better pet names, considering “Slippery Belle” the hamster, and “Mary-Kate” the boy mouse.
Anyways, Misto and Shyloh are now 10 year old tortie sister cats, and I love ’em to death. I even forgive them for making a meal out of “Oreo”, who was not a cookie, but in fact, another mouse. (RIP Oreo, I did love you too.)
I can’t count how many times I have come home and just buried my face in cat after a long and frustrating day. They don’t ask me what’s wrong, why I look so awful, or tell me to stop using them as kleenexes; instead they just lie there and purr even more. They can’t relate to my silly human life, and it’s nice to know that none of it concerns them and they’re really quite unaffected by all of it.
I don’t know. Cats are just great. They don’t take shit from anyone, and all’s forgiven as soon as you feed them dinner. They’re moody and weird but, hey, aren’t we all? THEY’RE FLUFFY. THEY LIKE YOU. AND THEY MAKE HAPPY NOISES THAT MAKE YOU HAPPY. This is why I don’t understand the “crazy” that comes with the “cat lady” title. In my opinion, you’d have to be crazy not to love them.
And to my original kitties, Bogie and Bacall, may you rest in peace. (Not like that’s not 99% of what you did whilst alive, anyways, but hey, whatever makes you happy in Cat Heaven)