One cool cat

If you know anything about me — and if you don't, go back and read the previous twelve-hundred posts, I'll wait here — it'll be pretty clear I'm without a doubt quite the vocal dog lover. I love most dogs, especially the larger breeds. The kind that lets me send my kid to the liquor store at midnight and say "Dad needs a beer. Take the dog."

I'm particularly partial to German Shepherds. I'm currently on my second one, Ace, who was a rescue and is just the sweetest boy. And of course before him, there was the world's greatest dog, Max. You can read Max's story in the wonderful, moving, heartfelt, funny, beautiful labor-of-love book Gone Dogs, available here. Or here. And even here.

But despite being a dog person, I have a secret I don't tell many people. However given the readership numbers here I feel pretty safe in, shall we say, letting the cat out of the bag (sorry).

A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far, far away, I had a cat. Her name was Mr. Kitty. And I loved her.

The short story is Mr. Kitty was a stray who followed my then girlfriend now wife home and never left. So right off the bat we had something in common.

We named her Mr. Kitty because we weren't close enough to check out the equipment, so we went with that.

Mr. Kitty would show up at my girlfriend's door every night. We'd feed her, take her on walks around the block (she just followed us) and then bring her in for the night where she'd sleep on my head. We'd let her out in the morning when we were leaving for work, and she'd always be there to greet us when we got home.

When we moved into my apartment in Santa Monica, even though there were no pets allowed we brought Mr. Kitty with us. We'd hide her when the maintenance people had to come in, or when the fire alarms in the building went off and we'd have to walk down seventeen flights of stairs with her disguised under a blanket or in a box.

A close friend of ours who's a veterinarian estimated she was about four years old. She was seventeen when we had to say goodbye to her. So for thirteen years, I had a cat.

Who slept on my head.

Who I gave subcutaneous fluids to everyday for years for her kidney disease.

Who when she got seriously old and ill, I gave cat enemas to so she could do her business without straining or being in pain. This was something I could've gone my whole life without knowing how to do and I would've been just fine.

When my son was born, someone gave us a Moses basket as a gift. But we never used it for my son. We put it under his crib, and it became Mr. Kitty's bed when she got to be too old and weak to hop up on ours.

Not long after, the time came to say goodbye. We took her to my vet friend, and I held her on my lap as she passed. I cried every time I thought about it for weeks after. I still do.

So when people say I don't know what it's like having a cat, a small, knowing smile comes across my unfairly handsome face. I know they're wrong. I know exactly what it's like, because I had the coolest cat ever.

Which is the reason I don't want another one.

That, and the fact Ace has another name for cats. He calls them appetizers.