Since then, I’ve wanted my own Shrek cat, a kitty with big, velvety black liquid eyes and dainty, folded back ears. Well, I didn’t realize that those signs in real-life cats mean murder. Behold!
Silently, George pleaded with me to let him drink my blood.
Seriously, though, Georgie is a very sweet cat and Ron and I love him to bits (as in, our cat wants to chew us to bits). My family adopted our first kitten when I was 8 years old and since then we’ve always had a feline in the fold. Despite having lived with a total of five cats over the last 20 years, each of their “catsonalities” always surprises and delights me.
When Ron and I were in the process of discussing our future together after graduate school, he mentioned over dinner at a Mexican restaurant that he might be allergic to cats. I spat out a mouthful of chicken flauta, slammed my glass of horchata into the wall and screamed “GODDAMMIT! That’s a deal breaker for me! A deal breaker!”
Ron said, “I just wanted to let you know the worst case scenario, because I know you want a cat.”
“And I’ll let you know mine,” I screamed, as I smeared salsa all over my face in a fit of pique. “No cat, no Cat-herine!”
As it turned out, Ron isn’t allergic to cats, so I didn’t have to break up with him. That would have been really sad, you know, because I love Ron. But I loooooooooove my cats.