Cat-astrophes: Part One

First things first: I am not a cat person. I’m just not. I love dogs. I love an animal that you can roll on the floor with, rub their belly, and BOOM, you’re the greatest thing alive (at least in their eyes). I like things that come when they’re called because they WANT to spend every waking second with you. I like an animal that only thinks three things:

1. I love you so much I can barely stand it.

2. I’m hungry. But you’re so wonderful you probably already have a plan to deal with it.

3. My GOD, could I love you any MORE?? No!!!

Ok, so now you’re thinking, Geez woman, just get a boyfriend. But I think a dog is probably much more reliable anyway.

The POINT is, despite my general preference for dogs, my lease only allows cats (and grudgingly at that…), so in August my roommate Emma and I bought a kitten from a rescue shelter. We named her McKinley (don’t ask why, it’s an inside joke that you won’t think is funny), and totally fell in love with her.


Emma is also a dog person. In fact, we both have West Highland White Terriers back at our parents’ homes. So, in way of an experiment, we decided to raise dear McKinlers as a dog. As a result, we now have a clumsy cat who drinks from the toilet, snuggles under the covers, doesn’t bathe herself, and plays fetch. Mission accomplished.

Of course, the animal is still a cat with cat instincts and cat quirks. For example, McKinley needs to be given a bath now and then. However, she is not such a fan of water. The first time Emma and I tried washing her, I ended up with a hole in my arm courtesy of her dagger-like claw. We are slowly warming her up to the idea, though. She’s no longer afraid of the sink, and we can rub her down with a damp washcloth without too much of a fuss. Baby steps.



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