OR, This Is My Blog and I Can Make Puns if I Want To
I am not a cat person.
I wouldn’t say I’m against cats, it’s just that we don’t really have a lot in common. Our shared interests are rather low, to put it another way. This Venn diagramme illustrates it perfectly:
So it was with trepidatious excitement that I met my flatmate’s cat, Flo, for the first time. Firstly, let me just state that no cat would make me give up a flat. Especially this flat, this glorious flat that was a mere five minutes from my office, right by the gym, the shops, the Laundromat and my running route. This flat with the quiet, the space, the large windows and the lovely kitchen. To be honest the only problem I have with cats is when there’s a quantity issue: as in, too many cats. I think anything over five cats is excessive (and even five cats seems like a rather large amount of feline to me) and anything over fifteen is crossing into ‘crazy cat person’ territory.
Pets, in fact, are a rather contentious issue between me and my family – but this is because my family has decided that I don’t like pets. This isn’t true. I don’t like large paws scratching at my boobs (I’m short, OK, and have you seen a Great Dane? They’re like Shetland Ponies), hair all over my bedding and slobber all over my arm.
What I do like is little furry bodies, warm heads, cheerful greetings and even little happy licks. Also, I like things that are cute. Like Tea Cup Yorkies (I die from the cuteness!)
My flatmate’s cat is none of these things. She is a majestic creature on the prowl; sleek, svelte black body and large green eyes. She eyes most things with disdain, and finds my petting an annoyance and a distraction. My stroking leads to petulant, and thus far, gentle, bites on my hand; a sign that The Queen has been annoyed.
My previous pets, and by that I mean the pets that belonged to ME and not ones that merely lived in my house with me (like my brothers, and their dogs, used to before I moved out), died tragically. In fact, my last TWO pets died. Before you jump to conclusions, I was not the cause of these untimely deaths (correlation does not equal causation!).
My first pet to meet an untimely end was a budgie I loved dearly named… erm… named… um… uh…. Well, the name doesn’t matter. The point is I loved him and we played pirates together and he sat on my shoulder and I stroked his little feathery back and I used to let him flutter uselessly outside because his wings were clipped. It was this act of kindness led to his early demise. By cat.
My little brother’s Matthew’s cat (named T-Rex, but Strawberry for short – he was like 7 when he named him) saw poor little budgie fluttering on the grass and took this opportunity to pounce – RIGHT IN FRONT OF ME – and get a little afternoon snack. You will never be forgotten, erm, uh, Budgie!
My second, and thus far last pet, to cross the Great Divide was a little Maltese puppy I had called Cuddles (for short). Cuddles full name was Cuddles Snuggles Huggles Juggles (and so on and on and on) Steele, and he was fluffy and friendly and clever. But not clever enough to look both ways before running into the road, and met his end the way he lived his life – full of gleeful abandon. And doffness. His funeral was a touching affair except for my mother’s barely contained giggles and snorts and tears – of laughter. I was livid with her, but it was only years later that I discovered writing ‘RSVP’ on a tombstone wasn’t really the done thing.
As for my next pet? I think I’ve illustrated quite clearly that I’m not quite old enough to own one yet.