When I was growing up, I had allergies to cats. And mold. And dust. And horses. And cows. And leaves. And perfumes. And tobacco smoke. None of my allergies were major enough to send me into anaphylaxis, but they were bad enough to keep me in a constant state of just barely above miserable until well into my 20s.
On top of this, my mom was the local allergy nurse and disliked cats. As an allergy shot giver, she saw the worst of how allergies affected people, which gave rise to her near daily vacuuming ritual. She grew up on a farm in the middle of Montana where the feral cats roamed free and bred like banshees. I say middle of Montana because it is, in fact, the center of the state, but also because saying the middle of nowhere understates how isolated the farm actually is. Look up the coordinates; you can see the actual farm on street view, but zoom out for a sense of what nowhere actually looks like. The nearest high school, where my grandpa, my mom and her siblings, and my cousins went, is 17 miles away in Denton. Anyhow, on the farm, cats were not pets. Dogs were pets, livestock were income, and chickens were breakfast producers. But most of all, cats were not pets. We were told, almost in the way a religious convert might tell you, that cats were dirty and disgusting. They shit in the house and, well, to quote my mama as she talked about people who kept cats as pets, “I just don’t get it.”
After catsitting for a dear little cat named, ahem, Little, over the end of year holiday break, I felt really sad when she went away. I grew to love, in a short amount of time, the feel of a cat sleeping on my chest, curling up on my thigh, sneaking on to the small of my back, or just greeting me when I came in the door, anxious for me to play chase. I had been looking at cats on petfinder for a few months just to find the funny looking ones, and something finally propelled me to email a shelter (and actually send the e-mail, as I’d written several versions over the past month but chickened out with my mom’s words echoing in my brain) about a little guy I thought was handsome.
On Saturday, I got to meet the little guy. His name is Ziggy and he doesn’t really have a neck. The shelter staff asked me if I’d be interested in adopting two cats, since what drew me to Ziggy was a trait that his brother shared, namely…
megafoots!
Both Ziggy and his brother, currently named Regie, have mega feets. Ziggy is gray and slightly smaller than Regie, and has 25 toes instead of the 24 Regie has. I am in love. Smitten. With Two kittens. Who have mittens. I don’t think the name Regie is going to stick, but Jumbopaw 3000 might not be very considerate as a replacement name.
So. I’m changing. I’m dropping my preconceived notions about cats, getting my house in shape, which includes finding a place for kitty litter and a cat tree, and going to become a cat lady. Awesome. I promise not to let it take over my life. I’ve already decided that I can’t post often about them on facebook, but that I might have to share things about them via a youtube channel.
In closing, I thought I’d share a screenshot of the terms people have used to find this blog. It cracks me up. I’m glad people got here, even if it was from Googling t-rex masturbation and three color brioche.
I’ve been on blog hiatus. April was busy with work, busy with the feline gentlemen, and busy with life. I suppose if I’m being really honest, it’s also been busy with me avoiding things that are about self-expression. It’s a talent. I’m an Olympian at occasional self-avoidance. Maybe not a medalist. But a qualifier, surely. It’s the cicada in me. I burrow and then re-emerge. Loudly. 
