The Joys of Other People’s Cats

I recently had lunch at my Arabic professor’s house, and spent most of the time playing with his cats. As a student, neither the rental contracts in my budget nor my moving schedule nor, tragically, my lifestyle permit me to have pets.

I do have two succulents, which hate the Pittsburgh cold with nearly the same bitter ferocity that I do. But spiky plants just aren’t the same as fuzzy people who need care and attention and can occasionally be entertaining:

My fixation on other people’s pets doesn’t just stop with patting: when I tell people how great a landlady I have, I nearly always mention Sophie, her adorable bear-like puppy. Sophie is tiny, not yippy, and firmly confused about how to run without turning into a rolling ball of fur.

I’m not in a place where I really want to live in the same city for 12 months non-stop. But on those few-and-far-between occasions when I flirt with the idea, the images which attract me are:

  1. Being able to get a cat (or a puppy, since Matt loves dogs even more than I do and keeps talking about “training” cats, which is foolishness),
  2. Buying a loom,
  3. Finally figuring out where all of my things are (since some are in Seattle, some in Pittsburgh, a closet at Matt’s parents’ house, and a whole storage room in San Jose)
  4. Having a truly permanent address to put on forms,
  5. Getting the chance to do some renovations to make where I live fit me better–a big bathtub, silly wall-vinyls everywhere, tons of bookcases.

In the meantime, I’ll keep harassing my neighbors’ pets.

Inspirational Quote:

“The difference between friends and pets is that friends we allow into our company, pets we allow into our solitude.”–Robert Brault

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