Feline Favoritism

I prefer cats over dogs.
There I said. Bring out the wooden lowercase t and the nails to fulfill the punishment of my blasphemy. I am an unrepentant cat person.
If you've been reading these posts, then you know I don't hesitate to share some of my controversial opinions on matters; if anything I tend to relish in them. However, I fear this may be a preference of serious contention. One that may very well decide my fate.

I have experience owning both cats and dogs (also mice and guinea pigs because every child needs to learn how not to haphazardly kill small animals). Close friends of mine will remember my oaf of a yellow lab whose goofy, lovable demeanor earned him friendships the neighborhood around. We got him when I was in the first grade from a classmate of mine whose family bred dogs (not the Michael Vick kind). Naturally, we chose the sleepiest puppy. At 6 years old, I was elated. I was anxious to give him a name of sophistication, one of poise and grace. A name that would bring to mind images of dukes and earls. A name of a king. So I wanted to call him Snowball. Yes, surprisingly at 6 I had the creativity of well... a child. Fortunately my parents put the kibosh on that and he received a far more human name (not like Steve or Jim or Gary, though overly human names for animals always inspired a chuckle in me such as a cat named Allen [Alan?] I once knew).

Our dog was a dumb ox, but he was our dumb ox for 16 fur-infested years (he perished immediately after his episode of My Super Sweet 16 on MTV). Hence the bulk of my childhood memories involve him in one way or another. As kids, my mother would send us out to chase the dog, offering monetary compensation to any who succeeded. This was actually just a brilliant ploy to tire out a bunch of kids who she knew would never be able to catch the immensely agile canine (granted that game became far easier when he was slowed by arthritis). I spent many an afternoon chasing him through the swampy backwoods of our neighborhood when he came into the idea of running off ("Oh don't bother with an electric fence, he'll learn where he's not allowed to go," were the infamous words of our neighbor who my mother still has yet to forgive for said claim). And of course the night I had a handful of adult beverages with a friend and drew eyebrows on him in permanent marker. My mother was not enthusiastic about that, though the dog just looked surprised. When he did get older he became a sentient carpet, happy to lay in front of the fire and simply exist. Although he became a notoriously picky eater, refusing to eat his kibbles until I had sufficiently doused them in ketchup, shredded cheese, and other accoutrements. Once, a friend of mine asked how old he was. I responded that he was 13, relatively old for a dog. Instead of saying something normal like "Wow that's awesome, good for him," my friend went "Ooh that's pretty old, probably doesn't have much time left." (he made it another 3 years, the dog I mean, not my friend, he is still alive and well). Like who in their right mind says that kind of shit? Sure in general I prefer cats, but dogs are still man's best friend (and everyone in between, dogs don't subscribe to modern social gender mores). I fully intend on using that for his grandmother someday...

We got our cat in the tail end of 2008. The dog was in his prime and my mother successfully conned us into thinking we would be getting another one. Little did we know she had feline kind in mind. Arriving to the shelter we were greeted with a cage of kittens. Many of them full of peppy energy. Except for one. The runt of the litter. A tiny frail thing. Initially I sneered at the option, far more taken with the cat-spider hybrid climbing the walls of the cage (not like an actual genetic mutation, god forbid literal cat-spiders exist someday). Yet the decision was made by the powers that be and we returned home with a mewling feline Lilliputian.

The lithe kitty was made at home in my brother's room. Though after some convincing, her quarters were relegated to my room. Poor decision. The smelly little beast continued to climb in between my covers to stay warm and comfortable. Now I know why doctors forbid co-sleeping with babies. You do not want to roll over and crush that thing. Especially as someone who moves when they sleep (like a lot, I'm an Olympic gymnast when trying to fall asleep). Eventually we bathed her, gave her medicine for her infected eye, and she grew quickly (mainly because we misread the instructions and overfed her for a while...).

Now I am the proud owner of a tubby ball of fur and claws. A bona fide diva determined to garner all the attention in the world while simultaneously turning tail to show her butt hole in an act of stupid defiance. Yet I love her all the same. She is even named for the eccentric prima donna of Breakfast at Tiffany's, Holly Golightly (though we often refer to her at Holly Gonotsolightly due to her prodigious belly and pitter-patter that sounds more like angry thunder).

Many people have claimed to me that cats are not loving, they do not love you the same way dogs do. That is undeniably true. Dogs are like ultra-ecstatic Stockholm syndrome victims. Any form of compassion is met tenfold. Cats are like the love interests of French New Wave films. Fickle, volatile, capricious, excessively independent. Attempting to show a cat any form of tenderness is met either with open arms (paws?) or a switch of the tail and a generous showing of their ass. If a cat lies on their back and shows you their belly, it is an invitation to the silkiest material on Earth, a veritable Bayeux Tapestry whose store is supple velvet softness. If you are foolish enough to accept said RSVP then you will be greeted by a sentient bear trap.

Can you blame them though? They are nature's perfect killing machine, cruelly shrunken down in size by pernicious evolution to an easily hold-able bulk. Surely if a giant creature fed you dry kibbles and picked you up against your volition on a regular basis while baby-talking you, you may harbor some bitter feelings. Which is also why I pick my cat up on a regular basis and brag about my opposable thumbs; one must maintain bipedal dominance somehow.

Cats are far better lap pets I believe. Granted my dog owning experience was with a medium sized lab, not a miniature yapping machine. Whenever I sit down to watch TV or read a book, I am quickly greeted with the sound of furry trotting, leading to a small meow, and a rather rude invasion of my personal space (a concept of which cats are wholly apathetic). Even at my laptop working, she will jump up onto my lap (once while rubbing her belly and writing, I became concerned she had ticks, close inspection revealed that she indeed had nipples). Yet despite my light complaints, I adore having a (relatively) small life form cuddle up to me. Cats love to sit there and just vibrate, like a diminutive lawnmower. They also make for nice sleeping companions (well at least when they've reached a size that reduces one's fear of accidentally rolling over and making cat pancakes). On cold winter nights it is a treat to have my little living radiator hop onto the bed and add much needed heat. Though she is wont to sleep smack dab in the middle of the bed and force me off to the side, something the dog used to do as well. If she sleeps up next to my head, I am lulled to a dreamy state by her obnoxious asthmatic breathing (my cat literally snores, it is both hilariously adorable and mind-numbingly annoying).

I don't hate dogs by any means, in fact I love them a great deal. They are brilliant animals (sometimes) whose happiness is essentially tied to your own. If you're happy, they're happier. But they are a serious responsibility. Owning a dog is no walk in the park (bah dum tsh). Dogs are furry toddlers that require care and attention in near equal proportion. You cannot leave your dog alone for hours on end without taking them out to relieve themselves (of both energy and poo), especially large dogs. Imagine a life where your ability to use the restroom hinged on another's decision (oh right, elementary school). I would very much love to own a dog again, but do not foresee that happening until I've settled down somewhere.

Cats on the other hand are pets on easy mode. They have an inside bathroom for use at their leisure, sleep most of the day, require limited attention, and spend the bulk of their waking time plotting anarchist conspiracies. For someone such as myself in their tumultuous 20s, cats are the perfect companion.

I trust that you will forgo stringing me up for my feline favoritism so long as we can all agree that cat and dog owners should live in peace and harmony. We all just want to provide love and affection to our furry captives. But if you own a tarantula get the hell out of here, you arachnid sociopath.