— or – “I’m Never Sleeping Again”
— or – “A Streetcar Named Kitty”
I’m a cat person and that sort of has a dual meaning. Oh sure, I prefer them over dogs with their independent natures and odd love for boxes and purrs and loves. Also the fact that they don’t smell like, you know, dogs.
I’m also kind of part cat. I know how that sounds – like I am crazy. But we knew I was crazy already, so stay with me. I have an independent nature although I insist upon love and attention on my terms, plus I despise getting wet. Plus I have a princess complex. Y’all should just love me, is all I’m saying.
So on Friday afternoon when our landlord told us all we needed to do to get a cat was to re-up our lease this August, I said done deal and headed to the Utah Pet Adoption Clinic the following morning with a somewhat disgruntled and disbelieving, dog loving Husband.
We’ll have him converted by the end of this story, don’t worry.
And then we met Stella. As it turns out, and I know, I know, all parents say this about their kids, but I’m right in this particular instance, Stella is perfect. She’s neither skittish nor too much a diva, she loves being scratched on the belly and licks instead of nips, and she purrs 24/7 like she entered herself into a competition against cars without engine mufflers without telling us. She loves strangers and being held like a baby and apparently eats whatever brand of cat food you place in front of her, although there have been some dire consequences and assaults against our olfactory senses because of that.
But Stella is also all cat when it comes to her nocturnal nature.
At 2:30 am:
Husband: “Did you hear her trying to wake you up?”
Me: “Um, yeah she was climbing all over me.”
Husband, groggily: “It was cute.”
Me: “. . .”
There are things that Stella does that are, in fact, very cute, like the way she holds her catnip mouse with her front paws and then bats at it with her back paws like it’s a soft, handheld treadmill. Or her purr-meow in response to nearly anything. Or the way she will flop over on her side whenever the mood to be scratched hits her. Or her reaction to a laser pointer. She’s going to kill that thing any day now, I’m sure.
Walking on my chest and sticking her potential WMD butt in my face while I’m trying to sleep on a work night does not really fall into that category. It’s more akin to “I have massive heartburn because I ate a bean and cheese quesadilla at 9:15 pm on a Sunday while playing Black Ops.”
We still love her, of course. I wasn’t born with the mommy gene but I was born with the kitty mommy gene, and I suppose there’s vindication for all my child-bearing friends who have lost sleep for the past several years because of their human progeny. And at some point I might even learn how to sleep through her nighttime scavenger hunts through our pillows.