Ever since I was a little girl, I have been scared of cats. As a child, when my next-door neighbor went on vacation she would pay me to open and shut her drapes, empty the litter box and feed her cat. You can probably tell I am old and this was a long time ago because I just used the word drapes.
That cat’s name was Fluffy and he used to meet me at the door standing on his hind legs, hissing and baring his teeth. Fluffy was a jerk.
My husband grew up with a cat and my kids are constantly asking if we can get one. Never mind that we have two dogs and I could create something cat-like out of our dust bunnies. But, no! As far as us getting one, let’s just say that pigs would need to be flying and a fat lady would have to be singing. Also, the devil would be very cold.
But, apparently my son really wants a cat, because when we were walking around the pet store the other day he was lamenting the fact that we don’t have one.
I said, “I’m sorry, buddy, but I just don’t like cats. I will never have one.”
He thought about that as we approached the register then said, “Oh well. Maybe we can get a cat when you die.”