I Am Not a Cat Person

I am not a cat person. I repeat, I am not a cat person. Well, at least, I was not a cat person, until a mangy eight pound feline interfered with my best laid plans.

One day last week, my lovely cousin Amy gave me a call. She wanted to know if I knew anyone who wanted a cat. She had discovered a stray cat lurking around her house and assured me it was the sweetest thing. (If it was so sweet why couldn't she take it in?) I said, "Well, no...I'm not much of a cat person" and the subject was closed. Lucky I am not training to be a psychic, because I was dead wrong.

The next morning, I arrive at said cousin's house to do a lovely favor for her; I was to babysit her one-year old son for a few hours. Mark can't talk-I don't have to hold pointless conversations with him; Mark can't walk-I don't have to exert much energy chasing after him. Plus, babies sleep a lot, giving me an opportune chance to read the latest Harry Potter book. What an easy gig...right? Not quite.

Shortly after 6 AM, I hear a scratching at the door. Curiosity overcomes me, and I sneak a peek. An orange furball the size of my palm is crouching at the front door. Now I am ever the dog person and do not understand the concept of this cat. He looks mean. Every time he meows at me, all I see are sharp fangs. I anticipate a lion-size roar to come out of his mouth, or at least a hiss. After contemplating briefly, I realize this cat is just hungry and I decide to sneak him some food. I throw some Purina One out the door, and he gobbles it up. Then Mr. Stray decides he will be cute and roll over on his tummy. But no, I do not give in. I shut the door and go on with my day.

A few hours later, little Markie's parents come home. I get paid (quite too well to consider this a family favor, really, but whose judging), and I head out towards my car. Little Orphan Kitty decides to take this opportunity to flirt with me. He rubs up against my leg, purring and licking my hand with his gritty tongue. Now, granted I have no children, but I liken this experience to what it is like when a parent first locks eyes with her firstborn. Sure, images of medical bills, toys, and food flash before my eyes, but as soon as I pet this cat, my heart melts. I knew I had gotten myself into something I shouldn't, but I couldn't give up on him now.Two days later, this cat is all mine. All he needed was some lovin' it turned out, so I named him McLovin. Two hundred dollars are gone to medical bills, already. Another one hundred went to a bed he will not sleep in, a tunnel he's scared to play in, and toys he is not interested in. He is even unenthused when I lace his squeaky mouse with catnip! But the first time he pooped in the litter box, I felt like such a proud mother. And when he cuddles up against me with his soft fur and bright eyes, I know it's all over. My dislike for cats has disappeared. Just get me some thread and I'll cross-stitch a sampler; I now indisputably declare that I have turned into everyone's favorite neighborhood staple, the cat lady. Me-ow.