Gracefully becoming a cat person, and everything it entails.

While walking the isles of Petco in Wichita Falls, ogling all of the feline toys I could not afford, I suddenly came to the realization I had become exactly what I feared I would become, a cat person.

For most all of my adult life, the words no pets allowed became a commonly accepted phrase. As single, journeyman journalist, apartment living always suited me.  Outside of basic entertainment needs, and a few mementos from past jobs, I tend to travel light.

Although I, for some reason, am not a member of the Olney Buy, Swap and Trade group on Facebook, my mother is, for some reason. She messaged me about getting a kitten, something I never considered.

“They don’t love you; it’s just a trick they do to get you to give them food,” I used to argue to Angela Stephens, the former front desk clerk of the Olney Enterprise.

The last cat I adopted hated me so much I eventually just opened the door to my apartment and said “if you want to go man, just go,” then watched the cat B-line past my feet. This was also the last cat my mother suggested I adopt. I could get along with the most vicious dogs, but there has always been something about me that cats hated. Despite all of my reservations, from past experiences, I decided to overlook them and give owning a cat one more shot.

When I first picked up the 12-week-old tabby, he wanted nothing to do with me. I held on as he tried squirming away, resisting harder and harder as I neared my apartment. As soon as his paws hit carpet, he vanished. I set out his litter box and food and water dish and hoped for the best.

I decided to name him Ernie, because I figured if I had to scream it at least I would get a chuckle from the lunacy of the situation. The first night, no Ernie, he pecked at his food but hid away somewhere. The second night, no Ernie, but when I woke up that morning I heard I high-pitched sigh. His head pressed on the opposite pillow as he stretched his arms. I suppose he just crawled into bed that night and has made himself at home ever since.

So hear I am, single, in my early 30s walking around the cat isle of a pet store wondering what collar fits my feline companion’s personality, what toy best suits his athletic needs and staring into the cold, dead eyes of the poor sales associate giving me kitten nutrition advice.

“Don’t look upon the living with envy,” I want to tell her. “We’re cat people. Cat people, We chose this!”