I have always been a dog person. Until I moved in with the other Blackbird, and this happened:
I was starting grad school, and she had just gotten a new job, and we decided to become roommates to cut the expense of living in a big city. It was the beginning of a be-yoo-tiful friendship, but we've discussed that already. I showed up at the townhouse, lugged in my suitcases, and she said, "Don't mind the cat. He's antisocial." Fifteen minutes later, I was getting ankle-loving at maximum purr, and he has been my TV lap buddy ever since. The jerk.
So what happens when you live with a black cat (other than the fact that you find black hair on everything)? Eventually, you find a little tchotchke in a thrift store, a little something that makes you turn to your pal and say, "doesn't this remind you of somebody?", and then you decide that 69 cents is a small price to pay for such a teeny little memento. And then the next morning, you wander bleary-eyed into the kitchen, see this thing, and wonder how did that even happen?
And so it begins. A kitty here. A kitty there. And then you realize that you have become crazy cat ladies in junk love fashion.
Hey, at least these cats don't stink, or claw the furniture, or gnaw holes in the side of a perfectly good bag of Doritos, or figure out how to open the bread box and chow down on a third of a loaf of white bread (he does love his carbs...), all of which have happened in the last five days in our house. And yet, as soon as I finish this blog post, the warm black thing that is currently pressed up against my leg, periodically giving me the evil eye, will take his place on my lap, bite my hand, and then fall asleep and drool on my pajamas. The jerk.