Not like I need a cat or anything. But I do love cats and have in fact had many a feline companion in my day.
My first cat, at least the first one that I can recall after pouring over the vast recesses of my aging mind, was named Brutus. Not because I liked the name Brutus or anything. Let's face it: I was like 10 at the time, and what 10 year old would come up with a name like Brutus? It was because my mom named the cat. Guess she figured that since she was letting me have a cat in the first place, it'd only be fair that she get to name him too. Mom has always loved books and history, so I think the name was born out of that. It was a cool name. And much better than anything I'd have come up with (he was a black cat, so I think I was wanting to call him Blackie. So unoriginal).
Oh, and my sister got a cat that day too. His name? Waldo. Although, come to think of it, I think my mom actually named him something else, but my sister decided to go with Waldo instead...after Waldo Kitty, you know, the star of the ever-so-popular 70's cartoon, The Secret Lives of Waldo Kitty. How's that for cat-naming efficacy? Or maybe Mom did name him Waldo? I'm not even sure anymore. Stupid brain anyway.
Later on, long after Brutus and Waldo were gone, when my sister and I hit our early teens, we got two Siamese cats. And yet again, Mom chose the names: Cleo and Patra. I don't think any name explanation is necessary there. They were both awesome and beautiful cats. Cleo was the best though, with his chocolate face and darker coat and bright blue eyes--and his friendly disposition, he was a shoe-in for the fave. And he was Mom's personal favorite too. She didn't much care for Patra, and made no secret about her feelings either (though I don't think Patra much cared either way, and they just each kind of avoided the other). I always considered Cleo to be my cat, since he pretty much lived in my room, and you could usually find him perched atop my television, right between my Garfield and Odie stuff animals. But Mom also considered Cleo to be her cat. So that was interesting.
[She also considered my first car, a 1966 Mustang that my dad bought me, to be her car, even though Dad pulled me aside after buying it and told me it was, um, mine. But I digress.] ;)
So fast forward to many married years later, and we arrive at the era of Miss Kitty. She was a stray that arrived at our back porch one day and my daughter asked if we could keep her. So then I was forced to choose between my one and only child--asking me with those huge, sad puppy dog eyes that no mother can refuse--and my husband, who just happens to be allergic to cats. And even though I'm a logical, rational, semi-intelligent woman, who realized in that very moment that allergies must always trump the puppy dog eyes, what did I do? I let my daughter keep the cat. Lucky for me, the cat lived outside most of the time, so the allergies were a non-issue. But it could have turned out very...ugly. Anyhoots, one day, true to her stray cat nature, she strayed away again, never to return. *sniffle* And we never got another cat again.
But what exactly is the point of my random stroll down cat memory lane? Well it's like this. After Miss Kitty left, I pretty much told the Hubs that since he was allergic, and since it'd be difficult to find another cat that either he wasn't allergic to, or that would live outdoors most of the time (which kind of defeats the purpose of having a cat, in my opinion), then he'd not have to worry his allergen-and-angst-ridden little head about having a cat ever again.
He pisses me off.
Not that he doesn't piss me off from time to time or anything, because he certainly does. [What husband doesn't?] But not usually in any manner severe enough for me to want to get a cat. So that's been my ongoing battle cry lo these many cat-less years since Miss Kitty's departure. And it usually goes a little something like this...
Me, to the Hubs: Don't piss me off, dude. (Oh yeah, I do indeed "dude" him!)
Hubs: Or what?
Me: Or I'll get a cat!
So the Hubs pissed me off last night, true to his Y-chromosomal-predisposed-and-genetically-challenged nature. (Dang, I sound almost smart there!) The content of the fight isn't even the point, so I shan't air his our pathetically stupid problems here on the blog.
But let's just say, yeah, OK, I think it's time to get a cat.