Friday, November 4, 2011

The cat that is not our cat.

"Shoo." "Scram." "Nooooo." "Git."

I tell the cat that is not our cat a combination of these nightly. I block him with my front bicycle wheel as I'm coming in the house. He comes in anyway.

His name is Romeo, and he lived here first. We've been told by the neighbors that he was more or less abandoned by a previous renter, years ago. Somebody down the street took him in and took care of him, but they already had a few cats and I guess Romeo is not as suave as his name implies, so he was eventually kicked out of the house. Now he is the master of the neighborhood streets and porches, and the sworn enemy of our neighbors' dogs. And he sneakily plies his way into our house, and our hearts. Chris loooves him, cradles him in his arms, talks to him and scratches his head.

This is actually Li'l Romeo, or Mercutio, or whatever his real name is. He is smaller than Romeo, but has no more respect for personal boundaries. 

All of this would not be a problem if I were not allergic to cats. Badly. Like eyes puff up and throat gets itchy allergic. I can't really have a cat in the house. Romeo doesn't care (in this, he is very honey badger-esque). He looks at me balefully with his pretty green eyes and then flicks his tail and rolls on the floor. He rubs up against my legs and jumps on the furniture. And he purrs. It's the purring that really gets me. I am helpless against purring. It's the nonverbal manifestion of joy and contentment, and I am all for joy and contentment in all cases.

So even though I'm not a cat person, and he's bad for me, I can't help love him a little. For his survival, his strut. Maybe he is pretty suave after all.

Why oh why won't you let me in, mean lady?


  1. You're gonna be a red eyed, soar, itchy throat old cat lady!!