I’m not a cat person. To be honest, I’m barely a dog person. It could be because I didn’t grow up with a pet. That is, unless you count Tippy, my mother’s 12-year-old poodle who greeted my birth with a snarl that said, “Be gone, foul-smelling infant. I was here first.” Tippy also left a “present” in my crib. The dog passed away shortly after my arrival. I had nothing to do with it. Honest.
So, for all of my childhood and most of my adult life, I have lived in a pet-free zone. It was a wonderfully antiseptic land void of dander, shedding, and messy “presents.” I could decorate my home with carefree abandon. Pale gray carpet in the bedroom? Why not? White molded plastic Eames armchairs? But of course. Priceless glass baubles on the Lucite coffee table? I’ll have six, please.
Yes, life was good. Better yet: Life was clean. That is until the fateful day that I visited the SPCA with a friend. He was shopping. I was just looking. “No pressure,” he said. “We’ll be in and out in two minutes.” And that’s when I met Harley. She blinked her brown eyes, wagged her fuzzy tail, and I was smitten. My pristine life was about to get a little messy.
That was seven years ago and life with Harley has been grand. Potty training was a snap. (Only three accidents thus far though the intestinal virus of 2003 lives on in infamy.) My Eames chairs miraculously sailed through the teething phase. And though she sheds with gusto, I don’t really mind. Harley is a sweet girl, and life with her is even sweeter.
So, yes, I’m very much a dog person now. Harley was easy to train; she’s a model mutt. I continued to shop and decorate my house with few fears—which explains why I bought a sleek mid-century-inspired leather chaise. It’s clean lines and handsome profile set my heart aflutter. As my trembling hand pulled out a credit card I might have even whispered, “My precious.” Fellow habitual decorators, you understand.
Alas, paradise was soon to be lost. A friend of mine had nine kittens he needed to unload. “But I’m not a cat person,” I protested. A carefully orchestrated dinner party (damn that osso bucco) and three gin and tonics later, there I sat on his living room floor amid a sea of bouncing, tumbling fluff. One particularly beguiling gray tabby crawled up on my swollen belly and went to sleep. Her purr was a siren’s song and, once again, I was smitten. Days later, Stormy came home with me. Mouse, her tiger-like brother, joined us. And my once-upon-a-time pet-free home had quickly devolved into a three-ring circus.
Life with the kittens has been a bit trying. Yes, kittens are fun. They purr. They like to cuddle. Mouse likes to nibble on toes. Stormy—much like her name—is a bit more tempestuous. She pounces at inopportune moments—like, say, when one is exiting the shower, wet and vulnerable. I’m sure this all sounds like fun. And it is. Except for the chaise.
Turns out, the leather chaise is like kitty crack. The cats pass on the Thai silk curtains. The antique armoire shows nary a scratch. But the chaise is a battlefield where claws are brandished with the skill of a samurai warrior. “NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO, NO!” I run screaming through the house as they gleefully dig their claws deep into my chaise’s supple flesh. They blink back at me as if thinking, “Who is this crazy man waving his hands in air? Ah, yes. He’s the kibble man.” And then the carnage continues.
It’s only at night, when my brood is snuggled next to me in bed, that I realize, dander be damned, I am slowly becoming both a dog and cat person. The pricey baubles are slowly being packed away, and I find myself asking sales clerks, “Is that fabric scratch resistant?” Priorities shift. Purchases are reconsidered. And thus my home has transformed from a designer showplace to a zoo—albeit a zoo with cute and cuddly benefits.
