When I was young, I had some bad encounters with dogs. It has left me as a cat person for the majority of my life.
I have had six cats, all of which were unique in name and nature. Kateri was named after a childhood crush and was traumatized after I bungee jumped her from the top of the stairs. Maxx was named after a graphic MTV cartoon. Cinnamon was laid back, but was put sleep. We were certain that Ginger was the neighborhood cat-harlot. Axl was named for the lead singer of Guns and Roses. Dr. Feelgood, who currently lives at my dad’s, refers to a Motley Crue song that talks about a drug dealer.
But despite my furry history, I have had a change of heart. I really want a dog.
I am single and when I come home sometimes it would be nice to be greeted by something other than my roommates and their girlfriends. Sure, my new loofah infatuation does wonders for my self-esteem, but I fear the relationship is dangerously one sided.
My change in animal alliance comes from years of neglect on the behalf of felines. It has just always seemed like cats get less personal the older they become. Mad Brad is all about communication.
My encounters with Dr. Feelgood have become depressing. As soon as I walk in, he follows me meowing until I give him food. When he finishes, he bothers me until I let him outside so he can have illicit sexual rampages with the neighborhood cats. When he gets done he comes in, and bothers me until I feed him again.
He eats, defecates and has sex at my expense. Even when I pick him up he squirms until a put him down and his unseemly infatuation with my big toes have begun to concern me.
Basically, I feel like I am a woman married to a husband who just doesn’t get it. I cook dinner, I wash underwear and I can’t even get the jerk to take out the trash or take me dancing. He doesn’t remember our anniversary and he doesn’t write me poetry anymore. Except in this case it’s a three-year old cat.
But I have grown tired of the abuse, and will get a dog as soon as possible simply because they always communicate their feelings to me. They may sniff me in curiosity or bark at me with caution, but at least I know where we stand.
Mad Brad needs lovin’ too. Maybe if cats hadn’t been so impersonal to me in the past I wouldn’t be so mad. The only way I would ever get a cat again is if they were like the ones in the Aristocats movies. Those cats were the grooviest bunch of felines ever. They danced, hug with nefarious alley cats and were rich.