Oh, boy.  I’ve got to be honest with you.  I’ve really struggled with the decision to discuss this particular topic…it is, after all, a hotbed for controversy.  The mere mention of this word, this thing, often sparks heated debate between men and women.  It (unfairly, I believe) pits independence against loyalty, and in extreme cases, good against evil.  And most importantly, the love of this controversial creature often perpetuates an ignorant stereotype.

Am I speaking of devout Christians and their love of Jesus Christ?  Well, no, although I’m sure many Christian women have argued my fiery topic with many a Christian man.  Am I recklessly sticking my toe into the choppy waters of today’s great political race?  Uh uh.  But something tells me this discussion would divide Barack and Hillary like no other issue has.

So, what is it, you ask?  Get to the point, Nikki, before I hit the back button and return to Perez Hilton.

 Fair enough.  Here goes…I will now speak write the words that I’ve often held back on first dates, or even second or third:  I, Nikki Wynn, am a cat owner.  And I am proud of it.  I’m sorry to have held this information back for, what, going on five/six posts now…but I needed you to adore me for who I am, not what I love.  Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?  You know why?  BECAUSE IT IS!  Less than ten years ago, this admission did not strike horror in the hearts of potential suitors, or illicit not-so-carefully hidden looks of pity from smug marrieds.  But the passing of twenty-four hours, just twenty-four measly hours - from October 24, 2000 to October 25, 2000 - was all it took.  That was the day I turned thirty and suddenly became the creepy, old woman who lived in a shoe house full of cats. 

Let me clarify, I have two cats…not twenty.  I refuse to have just one (the guilt of an animal home alone would tear at my very soul).  I have two…have never had more and probably never will.  Although it’s possible I’ll add a dog or two to the mix at some point.  Why?  Because I LOVE ANIMALS!  I grew up surrounded by them.  We may have lived in the classic confines of suburbia, but there was a veritable menagerie behind our doors:  cats, dogs, hamsters, wounded Blue Jays, crawdads, lizards, newts, tadpoles/frogs and the occasional box turtle.  I loved them all.  Black, white, red or blue…I didn’t care…I was an equal-opportunity animal whisperer.  This is tough for me to conjure up, but I will do it for you, dear reader:  One of my most horrifying childhood memories was the day I had to hand over the stray puppy I’d found at a Friday night high school football game (we named him “Lucky”, of course).  Much to my dismay, my evil parents had posted “Found Puppy” signs in and around the stadium, and Lucky’s thankful owners were soon located.  They showed up at our door with a plate full of cookies and a sad lesson…apparently I wasn’t Noah, I didn’t have an ark and I couldn’t have two of each.  I have one big, fat sweet tooth, but I didn’t eat one of those damn cookies…not one.

Alright, let’s get back to the issue at hand:  women and cats…or more precisely, women over thirty and cats.  I do realize there are men out there who adore felines, and I salute them and their blessed hearts - but for the sake of a clear cut argument, let’s stick to the majority.  Most men “claim” to abhor the “furry, distant, boring” creatures (their words, not mine).  In my experience, at least, these men have never owned nor spent more than fifteen minutes in the presence of these “independent to a fault” animals.  Barring severe allergies or a violent childhood attack, this loathing is ill-conceived at best.  Sweeping generalizations often accompany their hatred and the phrases “they just don’t give a shit if you’re there or not” or “they have no loyalty to their owners” are often tossed around like confetti, albeit with much less fanfare.

I work from home.  I am around my two not-so-slender gatos (Bella and Pawly) most hours of the day…and night.  To call these girls independent would be like calling Eliot Spitzer faithful.  I have a cat underfoot at every moment…and I have the bruises to prove it.  I am awakened by the freakishly large, Bella, every morning.  She slowly, and methodically, walks over my ribcage to rest in front of my face.  She then stares at me with an intensity that drives my tired ass to insanity.  When I ignore her, she slowly, and methodically, walks again across my ribcage, paws at my back and repeats the process until I angrily toss the covers aside and exit the bed.  She then leaps underfoot, looks up at me and, I kid you not, I think the little bitch smiles.  Occasionally annoying?  Yes.  Independent?  Not even close.  In fact, as I type this in my bed, late night, Pawly slumbers on the pillow next to me - one paw on my shoulder - and Bella, well she’s a foot away, flat on her back, and yes, staring at me.  Because that’s what she does best.  That and fetching.  Yes, she fetches.  Did I just dispel another myth?  Well, looky there.

There is something interesting that happens when a man falls for a woman with cats.  His long-held beliefs about the little furballs and their complete uselessness, begin to change.  It’s subtle at first, and certainly not revealed to his male counterparts, but the change it is a’comin’.  And how do I know this?  I’ve lived it…first-hand.  Every single serious relationship I’ve had started with a man who “didn’t much care for cats” and ended with his complete and total devotion.  And because men can be a bit, well, hard-headed (we’re not talking about me right now), acceptance of this growing love was often accompanied by a caveat.  A caveat I heard time and time again. It went something like this:  “I really don’t like cats…but I do like yours.  They’ve got real personality…they’re funny and affectionate and devoted.  They’re just different.”  Now, mind you, I’ve had a number of cats over the years…these men didn’t all know the two I currently share my home with.  The sad reality of animals is, their lifespans are far too short, and if you love them and live long enough, you will have to say a tearful goodbye to far too many.  So, some of my past loves knew Ceasar, others knew Pawly and Sterling, and the latest knew Pawly and the nightmare/dream that is Bella.  But the caveat remained the same:  “Yours are different.”  Each time, I held my tongue and forced a smile.  But I wanted to shout to the heavens:  “THEY’RE ALL DIFFERENT, YOU FOOL!  THEY ALL HAVE PERSONALITIES!  YOU LIKE THEM BECAUSE, AGAINST YOUR BETTER JUDGMENT, YOU LIKE CATS!  YOU ARE A CAT LOVER!”  (insert evil laugh)

I could bore you with my own stories and those of my sister and friends…examples of men obsessing over the best caretaking techniques, the proper food for healthy kidneys and long life, and the shelling out of thousands of dollars to keep their now precious felines alive for just a bit longer.   I could describe the men who came to love their adopted cats with a passion that is sometimes, unbelievably, unmatched by the women they met them through…but I will not ramble on, for fear that I will lose you to another blog, or (egads) work.  I will just say this.  Open your minds, my masculine friends.  Do not write off the thirty-something single woman…the one with the quick wit, great legs, informed brain and kind heart - simply because she utters the awful words:  “I have a cat.”  Because here’s the truth - when you whittle it down - I think you can put humans into two categories:  not cat or dog lovers…it’s much more basic than that…it’s those who love animals and those who don’t.  Which do you believe are more compassionate, more responsible, more loving…and who else can bring to you their love with a bonus or two.  Give it a shot.  You won’t regret it.

I must leave you now.  Bella is opening a cabinet, eating a piece of toilet paper, and batting about some toxic cleaning fluid in hopes of stealing my attention away from the computer.  Aloof and independent.  Yeah.  Right.

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