I vacuumed slightly less than a cubic foot of solid cat fur tonight. This goes to show two things. One, people with allergies should probably don a biohazard suit before coming within a ten-foot radius of my front door. Two, the first thing anyone should purchase oneself before "taking up housekeeping," as Louisa May Alcott would say, is a Dyson vacuum. Especially if pets are in the picture.
I love my cats, I really do. I love cats in general. I have to resist the temptation to foster every stray cat that comes to my door--and a good thing, too. I would have stolen two of my neighbors' cats by now. I fail at resisting the temptation to feed them, however, and so they keep coming around. But then again, I've always had cats around, so it's a homey, comfortable thing to have. My first word, apparently, was "kitty." This was probably rote memorization and repetition founded primarily on my mother's "No Kitty! Bad Kitty! Down Kitty! Bad Kitty!" rather than an instinctual lean towards felines, but I think it's significant nonetheless.
But despite the fact that they're pesky, shedding creatures with a tendency toward maiowing constantly while shunning your lap, I enjoy them. My husband's best friend's mother ascribes all sorts of human traits to cats, and though I think she goes a bit far (they have people names and people habits and look, to her, like certain people, hence how they come by their people names) they are uncannily knowing sometimes. They look at you, blandly, as though to say "Really, I thought you were above that. Back to washing my face, I suppose." If they made jokes, they would be dry. If they voiced opinions, they would be distant. The only thing keeping them from being too aloof is the fact that they shed embarrasing amounts of fur, and occasionally are moved to hurk something up on the carpet at inoportune moments.