The Truth About Cat and Dog People

I did not come into this world disliking cats. As a child, I always wanted a cat. I wanted a pretty, white, fluffy, green-eyed kitty that I would name Samantha. I wanted to hear and feel it purr. I wanted to brush its long, silky fur. I wanted to marvel at the acrobatics as the cat leaped and twisted to catch a yarn ball dangled over its head. I wanted a kitty condo, little fish-shaped kitty treats and a kitty collar with pink rhinestones.

You always want what you can't have and my mother wouldn't let me have a cat. Mother said I was allergic to cats. How she came to that conclusion I don't know because as far as she knew, I had never touched a cat. When I asked for a stuffed Tigger for Christmas, she bought me a Pluto instead. I was never allowed to linger at the lion and tiger exhibits at the zoo and the kitten aisle at the pet store was off-limits. I blame my mother's aversion to felines on my Aunt Bernice and her orange tabby cat Lucy. Aunt Bernice said that Lucy was named after Lucille Ball, but Mother said she was really named after someone else. I could never figure out what TV show Lou Siffer was on. Regardless of whom she was named after, Lucy was not a nice cat and for some reason she hated my mother. Whenever we would visit Aunt Bernice (which was understandably not often), Mother would be constantly on the alert, her eyes darting nervously around the room, poised for action like an antelope drinking from a crocodile-infested pond. I'd sit next to her, trying not to snicker with anticipation as I, too, scanned the room for signs of Lucy. Sometimes she would appear right away, sometimes she would wait. You never knew when or from where Lucy would strike. You only knew that she would. When she did strike, be it an ambush, a trap, or my favorite-a full frontal assault, it only lasted a second, then Lucy would be gone, Mother would be screaming, Aunt Bernice would be apologizing and I would be collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles. No permanent damage was ever done except to countless pairs of my mother's pantyhose. My mother didn't like cats, and cats didn't like my mother. That only made me want a cat more.

I don't mean to give the impression that I was a deprived child. I did not grow up without a pet-my family had a dog. A big, clumsy Chocolate Labrador Retriever - a not-too-bright but agreeable, indestructible kind of dog. His name was Gus and he was about as far from a cat as you could get. Sure, he was loyal. He was friendly. He was playful. But his eyes were brown and his hair was short and as slick and shiny as a sheet of Formica. Rather than brushing him, you could just wipe him down with a paper towel and a spritz of Windex. Every afternoon Gus waited at the gate for me to come home from school, wagging his tail, drooling-practically vibrating with excitement. It was a disgusting display of unwanted and undeserved adoration. Gus would not allow me to enter the yard without giving him a big hug, then he would race off to find a stick for me to throw. I'd throw the stick as far as I could, and he would race off after it. That gave me about 30 seconds get into the house and shut the door before he got back. I would proceed to the kitchen where Mother was waiting with my after-school snack. Undeterred by the closed front door, Gus would run around the house to the big sliding glass door next to the kitchen. Just as I picked up my snack, Mother would notice Gus on the other side of the glass door and say to me, "He's been waiting for you all day. Why don't you go out and play with him for a while?" I'd stalk outside and eat my snack with my left hand while throwing Gus' slimy stick with my right, all the while detesting how uncivilized the situation was. When I was away from my mother and Gus, I spent a lot of time trying to arrange some quality time with cats. My friend Susan had a cat. That is why I made friends with her. It is easy to make friends when you are kids. All you have to do to become best friends with someone is to share your dessert with them at lunch. Three cookies, two Jellos and a coconut macaroon later, I had an invitation to an afternoon of Barbie-playing at Susan's house. But I wasn't at all interested in Barbie. I was interested in Lancelot. Lancelot was Susan's cat, a gray and white Persian with round, green eyes and a tiny pink nose. He had very long hair and would require a lot of brushing. Lancelot was beautiful. Lancelot was regal. Lancelot was aloof. I couldn't get near him. Every time I came to visit Susan, Lancelot would immediately climb to the top of the refrigerator. I was not amused. I was tenacious. After a few visits Susan's mother became concerned about the frequency of trips I made to the kitchen to get a glass of water. She called my mother. This resulted in my being taken to the doctor where I was tested for diabetes. I was given a clean bill of health (I was tempted to ask the doctor for a test to prove that I was not allergic to cats, but I was afraid it would involve another needle) and sent home. Eventually, Susan tired of playing Barbies with herself while I coveted her cat and our friendship faded.

As I grew older I began to realize that people could be divided into two basic categories: cat people and dog people. Oh, sure, it can be argued that there are also bird people, fish people, reptile people and even a very small number of ferret people, but I am referring only to people of rational minds. I am, therefore, not talking about the lunatic fringe of fanatics who put clothes on their pets and claim the animal doesn't know it's a dog/cat/bird/iguana/ferret. I am not saying that people are defined by the kind of pet they own-cat people sometimes own dogs and dog people sometimes own cats, but I don't believe those humans or animals are truly happy. The point I am making is that most people exhibit basic cat or dog personality traits: cat people are fastidious, up tight, reclusive, cold, and prone to delusions of grandeur; dog people are loyal, emotional, devoted, warm-hearted and down-to-earth. Cat people frequent espresso bars, opera houses and eat sushi; dog people go to parks, rock concerts and always cook their fish.

After years of observing human and animal behavior, it finally became clear to me that I was a dog person. This came as no shock to my mother who had always known and tried to steer me toward dogs all along. For a while I languished in denial, refusing to give up my fascination with cats and things cat-like, but cats had never been a good fit for me. I admired them, but I didn't really feel comfortable with any of the things that cats or cat people represented. I didn't even really like the musical. Eventually, resignedly, I had to admit to myself that dogs and dog people were my kind of crowd. I rekindled my relationship with a very grateful Gus, and from that moment forward primarily sought out dogs as friends.

With this new outlook on life I expected things be far less complicated, and for the most part, they were. I made many new friends and was much happier. However, deep in my subconscious, I still wanted what I couldn't have and that desire led me to an unsuccessful relationship. There are some people who look and behave for all intents and purposes like dogs, but underneath are really cats. One summer I fell for a guy who I thought was a dog. His name was Vincent, and that should have tipped me off because no one would ever name a dog Vincent. He was stocky and scruffy, energetic and enthusiastic, not particularly handsome or smart, but possessing a kind of affable charm. Those are all very dog-like qualities, but he was really a cat. There was an instant spark between us when we first met, and we had a lot of fun together doing cat/dog neutral things like going to the movies and eating at The Olive Garden. As a dog, I gave and expected a lot of attention and I was aggressive and expressive about it. That is when the cat appeared. The more devoted and attached I became to Vincent, the more detached and indifferent he became to me. I would sit by the phone, waiting for my cat-man to call, which he did less and less frequently, as my dog-friends kept stopping by, trying to get me to come out and play. The relationship was inescapably doomed, and Vincent and I ended up hissing and barking at each other.

Cat people should befriend cat people and dog people should befriend dog people. I think the world would be a better place with lower divorce and murder rates if we would all adhere to that philosophy. Appreciate each other's differences from a distance, and no one will get hurt.