Gather ’round, boys and girls because today your Auntie Em is waxing poetic about one of the most controversial topics of our time: Cats. Yes, the mere mention of these pussy footed fellows can split a room into two separate and distinct camps: friends and people who hate cats (or as I like to call them, fools (unless they’re allergic to cats, then they have my deepest sympathies)). This latter camp tends to be pretty vocal about their deep seeded hatred of Earth’s most adorable creatures. “Cats are aloof, unappreciative little jerks! Now dogs… Dogs are where it’s at, man”. These poor, misguided sots have clearly 1) Never met the right cat, b) Let one bad cat experience taint an entire species for them, and/or #) Never read or watched Cujo (yeah, he was just in it for the cuddles…).
Now, I’ve got nothing against our puppy pals (I spend every single Thanksgiving watching the National Dog Show… Puddles was robbed, y’all) because they’re also pretty stinkin’ cute, but I fall pretty firmly into the kitty cat club (we’ve got t-shirts and meet the third Tuesday of every month). Of course, because I’m a single lady over the age of 18, my feline appreciation tends to cast me as a “crazy cat lady” (which according to the uneducated, idiot set apparently means I’m destined for spinsterhood? Whateves. Jane Austen seemed like a pretty productive single lady, just sayin’). So, to those nincompoops who pass judgement on unattached women who prefer the company of cats to idiots, I say, “Pbbbbbbbbbbbt“.
The way I see it, we cat ladies have two alternatives: 1) hide under the bed like someone’s just fired up a vacuum cleaner or 2) lean in and rock it. I don’t know about you gals, but I’m planning on wearing my cat on my sleeve.
(Also, if you want to hear a great story about the song, “What’s New, Pussycat?” click here).