So, last Christmas, we got a kitten.
The kids named him Apollo and fell madly in love. They’re crazy about him and he rather likes them, too.
He also likes my husband just fine.
But, me? He loves me.
(The feeling is mutual, I must confess.)
But, here’s the thing…
Apollo? Is not really a “typical” cat.
“Your cat is a dog,” my husband told me dryly.
“Don’t be silly,” I replied.
“He comes when you call.”
“Well, yeah. Some cats do that.”
“He runs to the door any time you get home.”
“That’s because he’s a nice cat.”
“He ROLLS OVER ON HIS BACK FOR BELLY RUBS any time you come up the stairs.”
“Well, that is true, but he’s totally a cat! He’s fastidious about washing himself, litter-trained, self-sufficient, and doesn’t need a care-taker if we go away. We don’t have to walk him or let him out or bathe him or any of that. He doesn’t sniff bottoms or slobber on us or–”
“He licks your cheek. Right before gazing in your eyes.”
“Well, yeah. But he’s not slobbery.”
“Your cat. Is a dog.” he insisted.
I went back to folding laundry, then spotted Apollo in the other room.
“Come here boy!” I called, patting my right thigh.
He came at a run and sat at my feet.
Maybe I have a dog-cat.