Cats

There's a small herd of women at work who talk about nothing but their cats. It shouldn't bother me, but after a year or two all the stories about how cute they are, what they jumped on, what they ate, and what they scratched up have begun to grate on my nerves.

What especially bothers me is that they don't just talk about their cats amongst themselves. A couple of them insist on sharing cat stories with me.

As I sit there, half-listening and trying to do my work, my brain screams "DO I LOOK LIKE I CARE?!" over and over again.

Yesterday they caught a feral cat that had been hanging around the building for many months. Seems there had been some talk about Animal Control (or whatever it's called) coming out to get rid of it, and so they decided to catch it themselves and adopt it. I'm sure it'll work out great.

I'm also fairly sure that a couple of the women (but not all- I'm sure the others are very socially-conscious) lose sleep at night worrying about the fate of the poor little kitty but pobably think Darfur is either a yogurt brand or a fabric material.

They're the type of people who wrote letters to Barbaro.

It's not like I hate cats or anything. In fact, I almost have one. I've almost come to regard a neighbor's cat that likes sleeping in the sun by my door- or in the shade of my table on hotter days-as mine. Except that I never feed him or pet him or anything like that.

But when I'm outside reading he likes to wander over and fall asleep on my feet, so I think he must like me okay.