In the past couple months, I’ve noticed a growing, baffling trend; that being nearly every woman on this earth owns a cat. It’s gotten to the point that this phenomenon warrants some explanation.
The other night I was on a date, things were heating up, and we decided to go back to her place.
“You don’t have a problem with cats?” she asked me.
I looked her dead in the eyes. “I’m going to be honest. I hate cats.”
I don’t like cats for many reasons, which I will get into, but perhaps my biggest apprehension toward cats is I don’t see why anyone would want to own one. Maybe one cat has ever smiled at me. Most cats don’t seem to actually like humans; they just tolerate them so that they can continually get fed and have a home to sleep in.
“But you’ll like my cat. She’s different,” is what I usually hear.
Unfortunately, they are all the same. It’s to the point now where I’ve met too many Sallies and Mr. Pickles for my own good. I despise walking into an apartment or a house and there sit three cats, all staring at me like, “Who the fuck is this dude?”
This charade is almost routine now. They stare, then come over and rub against my leg, and then they gravitate toward their female master, clearly trying to send a message.
“Isn’t Daisy just the cutest,” a woman says, holding up Daisy and burying her face in Daisy’s chest.
“Totally,” I respond through gritted teeth. Even Daisy doesn’t look too happy about this situation, because she just stares with disgust.
“She’s mine, bro,” is what she really means when she purrs. Don’t worry, Daisy. I don’t like you either, and to be honest, you’re ruining my lovely evening.
Through all this, I don’t understand why so many women own cats. I don’t know if women and cats just relate well. Perhaps a cat is like a boyfriend, without all the baggage. In that sense, I completely understand why someone would want to have a cat around.
But it’s not like I walk into too many dude’s places and see a cat. I’ve never said, “What’s up, bro? How’s the cat?” Guys just don’t talk about that stuff.
I used to live with a cat back in college, courtesy of one of my old roommates, and sadly the cat just had no business being in a house full of testosterone and masculinity. Come to think of it, I don’t know why it was ever brought into the home. No one wanted it around, and everyone kept telling the roommate, “Just keep it out of my room.”
Perhaps fittingly, that cat loved my room, and more specifically, my bed. I’d come home from class or work and that thing would be lying on my pillow, shedding everywhere. It was so disgusting. I finally had to just shut my door so she wouldn’t come in anymore. Of course, I got labeled the bad guy for this.
“Just let her sleep in your room, Q,” everyone would say.
“Why don’t you let her sleep in your room?” I’d always counter.
Stammering and deference would usually follow, and that’s because no one else wanted cat hair all over their sleeping quarters.
I tried to like the cat for some time. I’d come home and pet it, maybe talk to it like it gave a damn about what I was saying, but it never really worked out. She would just stare at me, one tooth out, wondering when I would get off my bed and go away.
This isn’t me asking women to lose the cat fetish. I figure that if I can handle a cat, I will fall right into a woman’s good graces, securing me that all-too-elusive relationship. I’m wondering is if there will ever come a day when cats and boyfriends can harmoniously coexist. Plus, as… oh wait… Jesus… Mr. Pickles is rubbing up on me again. I gotta go.