Plants > Pets

Me. When I still liked cats.

Me. When I still liked cats.

I liked cats A LOT when I was a kid; specifically, kittens. I was looking through old photos the other day when I came across the one of me in the blue dress at age 2 and a half. At first glance, other than the crimped hair and frilly barrettes, everything looked fairly normal and up to par. Upon further examination, I noticed a scratch on my forearm.

Barn kittens are fluffy and cute, but can be semi-wild by the time they come into physical contact with humans. As a 2 and a half year old girl, kittens are fluffy and cute and are meant to be picked up and held until they claw their way out of the minimum security prison. Let’s just say I’ve got sick battle scars.

I think my loving and losing tens of barn kittens to wildlife, harsh winters or truck accidents (I know, Dad) resulted in my overcompensation as an adult. I don’t know if it is that I don’t like them, or that their lightning fast reflexes or nine lives frighten me. Over the years my fear of cats has expanded to dogs.

Before we go on, I don’t want you to make me out to be heartless. I don’t hate animals. I won’t kick your dog. I just don’t develop insane attachments to other peoples’ pets. Don’t worry, I won’t like your human kid either. I wouldn’t take it personally.

Let’s put it this way . . .

Have you developed a relationship with my car? What about my flourishing basil plant? I love them both, to an extent. But, you! Don’t like my car because it’s rusty and dirty and you couldn’t give less of a shoot about someone else’s plant. So please, don’t be offended if I don’t stop to pet your dog. Besides, how do I know he won’t bite, or worse: develop one-sided puppy love for me.

Nixon is a mini weiner dog. He might be more useful at a birthday party or a circus as the entertainment than as my friend’s pet. I don’t like him and I never have. Animals have a sixth sense and can almost read your mind. They know when you’re not a “dog person” and will do their best to leave you in peace. Nixon was born without the sixth sense. Each time I see him, even if it’s months or years from the time he last laid his eyes on me, he will remember me. He will bark, jump up, and crawl all over me with excitement. He’s like a Spanish lover I just can’t shake.

I’m not into you buddy, leave me alone.

The good news is: it appears I’m not at risk of becoming crazy cat lady. I’ll stick with my plants.

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