Not like I’m half-cat, half-human. I mean cat person as in a person who likes cats. This in no way means I don’t love dogs, or hamsters, chinchillas, or pretty much any cute animals; it simply means cats are my ideal companion animal (besides my wife, but in a much different way).
To quote Amy Farrah-Fowler, “They are the epitome of indifference.” That works for me. When I don’t have the energy to take them for a walk, (almost always), I don’t have to. If I don’t want to play with them, they likely don’t want me to. If I don’t want them on my lap, that’s fine by them. Unless I’m trying to sleep, then they won’t leave me alone. Or if I’m wearing black pants.
Don’t get me wrong, I love to play with my cats. I just like that I get to play with them when they want to play, and I want to play. They let me know, and I can choose to play, or tell them I’m sorry and that I don’t feel good enough.
I have two cats. The male cat is Dobson. The female is Piedmont. The names are strange on purpose. Let me explain.
My wife and I get a little giddy when we are joking around with each other in the middle of the night. One night we were lying in bed at like 2 in the morning, and started joking with each other. Our sleep-deprived, juvenile, delirious humor can get to be a little wrong. We usually end up making terrible jokes and see who can shock each other first. Ah, true love.
Anyway, we’re lying in bed, joking around, and we started joking about if we had kids. And we came up with a scenario in which we’d have two kids, a girl, and a boy. We’d homeschool the children until just before middle school (or junior high, for those who know it as such) & all the while speak to them (from birth) in the worst faky British accent we could do. (& trust me, we can do really, really bad British accents) If we tried that in Great Britain, we’d be locked in the tower, or whatever British people do when they hate people making up bad, fake, accents.
We’d also name them the most ridiculous names we could think of. We spent about an hour coming up with awful names and settled on Piedmont and Dobson. The plan was to teach them the worst social skills as possible, use those accents until they talk that way, give them those names, then release them into middle school.
After they come home, likely crying from the bullying, we drop the accents, ask them why they’re talking like that, and basically make fun of them. We got some good laughs out of our idea, but since we’re not Sadists, or Psychological child abusers, we decided it should remain a joke. But then we got a phone call.
My wife’s family had a cat who had a litter. There was a kitten available for us. It was a little boy kitty. (so we thought) When we went to go get him, another little boy kitty picked me out. He would not stop following me out of the box. We had to take them both. He would be Dobson. The first boy (?) would be Piedmont.
Piedmont acted just like a little boy who had been spoken to in a bad, faky British accent. We thought he was very prissy.
Then one day, we’re all on the bed together, and my wife notices how large Dobson’s um…boys are getting. We joke about how large they are and how we have to get them fixed soon before they try to get out if a female cat gets near.
Then my wife says this: “Piedmont doesn’t really seem to have balls at all.”
I grab Piedmont and turn him (?) over. Nope, “Piedmont’s a girl!!!!” I yelled. So we kept them separated until we could get them in for fixing.
Anyway, now we get to give Dobson his boar treats and cuddle rape Piedmont. I get to cuddle with my very good boy, and we get to put her on a spit and chop her. “Piedmont, you are a little too sweet, and your cuddle execution was a bit off. For those reasons, we had to chop you.” I make straw triangles for him. And make her go crazy and pull across the carpet.
And when we don’t feel like doing any of those things, we just get to watch them be cuddly, or play with the toys or boxes, and that works for them.