When I was a little girl, I desperately wanted a cat. The one animal my father wouldn't ever let us adopt - something about a cat going shame-shame in his sandbox when he was a little boy. (I was told if I got a paper route and could afford to buy and board a horse on what I earned, he'd help me pick him out. Generous, no?)
It didn't stop the dream of something lithe, lean, graceful, independent, beautiful. In a word feline. Maybe I should have dreamed that about myself, I could have been a ballerina.
Subsequent dreams came and went, but the dream of the cat went unfulfilled. But a lot of dogs crossed my path. All sizes, shapes, and various levels of obedience. Honestly, I have seldom been responsible for creating good manners in my canines; the prior owners or foster parents usually encouraged good manners. I've been lucky.
Until.
A bit better than a year ago, a puggle found her way into my life. More petite than the golden retriever who most recently owned (and as of this writing still owns) me, a joy to play with because she actually plays.
Thing is, she is actually a cat.
Hubby is the one who initially pointed out that it was catlike behavior.
Turns out that this is the right kind of cat for me, for now.
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