I recently rediscovered some things I wrote several years ago. It’s been a joy to revisit those pieces. Some are forever relevant, so I decided to start a series of “Lessons From Memory Lane” posts for your enjoyment. The post that follows is titled, “I Hate Cats… But I Still Love Mine.” Though I no longer have a cat, the message endures, because it’s a lesson on the nature of love itself. Enjoy!
I Hate Cats… But I Still Love Mine
I really do hate cats. I always have. As a young boy, I was allergic to them, which probably didn’t help me to like them much, but beyond that, I never liked how sneaky they were, how they didn’t listen to commands (at least not in the way dogs do), and how they just stare at you, as if to say, “I’m in charge here.”
As an adult, I grew out of my allergy to cats. I fell in love with a cat-lover. I married her and we adopted two kittens of our own. Sure, they were cute and cuddly, and they were fun to play with, but I very quickly grew tired of cleaning their dirt and the messes from their hairballs. Almost nine years later, it’s rare that a week goes by that I don’t find some mess somewhere in the house. It’s rarely on the hard floor, though the mess will be found right NEXT to the hard floor – on the carpet. I am convinced it is some great cat conspiracy to drive me nuts. On top of all that, I agree with the funny e-mail someone sent me recently, which said that cats try to kill their owners by scooting right beneath their feet as they are taking steps… and particularly when owners are ON steps. Things of that sort bring me to my thoughts from this morning.