I’m a Cat Person
I’ve written about dogs in this blog, so now I’ll write a bit about cats.
I’m a cat person. Well, actually, I’m a bird person, but I grew up as a cat
person. My family got a cat in 1979, a few weeks after Mom saw a mouse in the
basement. I remember that there was another mouse in the house, around 1982,
but that was the last time.
That cat was a great pet. I was 5 or 6 when we got her, and my sister was
two years younger, and that cat was perfect for us: very mellow, very
laissez-faire, very, very patient, and tough enough to scratch when the
occassion demanded it. With me and my sister, the occassion demanded it pretty
often, until we were both in junior high.
She was a pretty cat, too: part Persian, and part alleycat. It was an odd
combination, but she definitely came from the deep end of that gene pool.
When my sister was in high school, she brought a kitten home. This cat was a
contrast to its older housemate. We started calling the new kitten the
non-wonder cat, after she chased her tail, caught it, bit it, and turned around
to see who bit her.
She was a sweet cat, in her own way. She liked to curl up next to people on
the couch, and she always knew when the humans were going to get up; she’d get
up, herself, about 30 seconds before, to avoid having her seat disturbed.
Both of these cats are gone now, and my current pet is a parrot, but I do
remember them fondly.
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