I’m not a cat person. I’ve always had dogs. I like dogs. I have two of them.
But then a kid in my house wanted a cat. You can’t touch this cat – she’s not terribly social. She hisses at most guests to let them know that she doesn’t like company and she hopes you’ll get the hell out. Soon.
Kids can’t pick her up. You can’t cuddle her. There are not nose kisses. None of the things most endearing about my dogs are things you can do with this cat.
But oh my gosh, I LOVE her! When this cat comes to sit with you, you feel like you’ve earned it. You’ve done something to please the gods of feline-ness. She will rub her cheek against your cheek, or curl up behind you in bed while you sleep. Sure, she could just be trying to suck the life out of me, or maybe she’s stealing the warmth of my body heat, but she really makes you feel like you’ve done something so deserving, the cat that hates everyone is willing to grace you with her tolerance.
I don’t understand it. I have dogs that come running to the door when I walk in, beg for a quick scratch behind the ears while I’m making dinner, put their little paws in the air to let me know they want to be picked up. And I love that.
But with the cat, it’s like you’ve won a marathon, hit the lottery, cured a deadly disease. Such satisfaction in every tidbit of attention.
Maybe it’s a deadly cat mind game? Yeah, has to be.