My sister got a cat. I'm jealous. Searingly jealous. But my jealousy goes even deeper, because to get a cat, I will have to convince S that getting allergy shots for the rest of his life is a good idea. Right now, he emphatically does NOT like the idea; he also says he hates cats, though I'm convinced the love of a good cat would reform him. If S wasn't allergic to cats, I would probably make sure that in our next apartment is cat-friendly, and then the first week there, I would look for a cat to adopt. I love cats. My sister loves cats too. In another life, I'm pretty sure we could be crazy spinster cat ladies living together in a rickety house with piles of newspaper all over. You've seen those ladies on the news, or possibly you lived next door to one.
It's surprising that I like cats, though. If you know my tragic cat history, you are officially free to stop reading this post right now, but if not, you might want to read on for a scary cat story. Okay, maybe it's more scary if you're four. Which is how old I was at the time. I had a new Hello Kitty purse, see, and I wanted to show it to my across-the-street friend. I ran up the stairs (rickety wooden ones) to our rickety deck to get the purse off of the ugly brown linoleum that resided on our kitchen floor. I don't remember what happened after that, but I must have screamed, and my mom said she ran up the stairs, and I ran out of the house with the cat attached to my back. By her teeth. Smokey didn't have any claws, see, so her teeth would have to be it. People have suggested that maybe I stepped on Smokey's tail, or maybe Smokey was laying on the bag, but I don't remember. In fact, while I remember clearly wanting to show off that Hello Kitty purse, I don't remember anything that came after I got up onto the deck. My memory starts again when I went to the doctor and had to get shots. In my ass.
Shots are traumatic enough. Shots in the ass are even worse. I will say, though, that those shots saved me from the standard pre-K shots, so that made me feel special. I'm pretty sure Smokey was disposed of post-haste, and we never had another cat until Allie, the cat with radioactive shit. Literally. I loved Allie. And I had a cat briefly in college, but my ex got the cat in the break-up, and I've never forgiven myself for that. I loved that cat. Like the dickens. You know what? This post has helped me come a conclusion. I simply must have a cat. S better start praying he is miraculously cured of allergies, because if not, he's headed for a world of pills or shots. Pills or shots, baby.
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