Doug is not what you’d call a cat person. In fact, these days he’s not much of an anything-with-fur-claws-and-tails-person, for that matter. So when I told him I was planning on supplementing our dog-filled house with two cats, as you might imagine, he was less than enthusiastic.
And when he laid eyes on them for the first time once I brought them home, it didn’t help matters any.
“A hundred cats to choose from, and that’s what you came home with?” he scoffed while they sniffed their way out of their carriers and tip-toed around the house, starting at every sound. “There’s nothing special about them. Black and white cats are a dime a dozen. They’re like the Camry of cats!”
“But they were the ones with the most personality,” I argued. “The one with the skinny tail jumped right in Tyler’s lap. I think they’ll be really great for the kids!”
“The only thing they’ll be good for is target practice,” he grumbled. “And where are you planning on keeping their litter box, anyway?”
“In the furnace closet. Just like we did for every other cat who’s lived here over the past decade.”
“How about I put the cats in the furnace instead?”
“Stop,” I scolded. “If we’re going to teach the kids empathy, you have to be nice to the cats. There might even be times that I’m working late and you’ll have to feed them.”
“Oh, I’ll feed them,” was his wry response. “Right to the coyotes!”
There were a few times since then that the cats disappeared. We haven’t yet let them go outside, so every time they couldn’t be found under beds or trapped in closets, cabinets or drawers, I eyed Doug suspiciously. I imagined him spraying them with BB’s, chopping their bodies up for the coyotes and disposing of their little cat bones somewhere where I’d never find them.
You can imagine my surprise when I rounded the corner this week and spied him and Bessy, the skinny-tailed cat, in the midst of this most magical moment. So tender was this moment, in fact, that it made me want to light a candle and play soft music.
The whole thing made me wonder: if a cat-o-phobe suddenly gets caught being not-so-catophobic, might this be a variation of coming out of the closet? This would be a good thing, since there are so many skeletons in our closets there’s really not enough room for hanging out in there anyway.
As for me, I don’t really care what my husband’s newfound persuasion is. I’m just glad none of those skeletons belong to cats.