I am not a crazy cat lady. I do not have upwards of 30 cats roaming around, shedding, shredding, or hacking up undigested slimy fur balls.
However, I am a cat person. That is, I like cats. I prefer them to dogs, although I like dogs well enough. I grew up an only child with a succession of feline siblings. I’d spend hours scritching around the ears and under their chin, feeding them, grooming them, snuggling with them every night. I even wore them (right).
As a college student away from home and cat, I chafed at the dorm rules prohibiting pets. Pete and I and picked out an abandoned ball of fur at the pound the day after we moved into our first house. We’ve had at least one (and as many as three) cat(s) ever since—35 years’ worth of cats—until this past year when our last cat passed away at the ripe old age of nineteen. Between moving into a pristine, un-furred house (with new, odorless carpet) and the discovery that Pete is allergic, a cat is no longer an option.