It's bad enough that I'm in my mid-thirties and still single; add a cat to the mix and I might as well declare myself a spinster for life. But it's not only the dreaded cliché I've long wished to avoid; my father is heavily allergic to cats and so my siblings and I were raised to be good and faithful, if not puritanical, dog lovers. Getting a cat amounts to heresy in the Drown family. (Granted, my brother became a heretic a while ago, but the family writes that off as the in-law's influence. I have no such excuse.)
Yet this past weekend I met a cat named Fat Boy who needed a home because his family was moving. Despite being just two years old, declawed, neutered, and most definitely NOT fat, Fat Boy was facing a trip to the Humane Society because no one wanted him. Now, I have always been a major softy when it comes to pets (you can ask my niece about the sob-fest she witnessed when we watched "Babe: Pig in the City" together), but my blood sugar must've been low that night because I found myself saying, "I'll take him." And now I must be losing my eyesight because the text I got tonight said, "He's yours - when do you want to take him home?"
So there you have it. Come Friday night this avowed dog lover will own a cat. I will be a heretic. I will be one step further down the slippery slope to permanent spinsterhood. And I haven't the foggiest idea what I'm doing. Pray for Fay Boy. I have a feeling he's going to need it.
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