Yesterday I found out that, among other things, my dog is allergic to cats. I couldn’t help but chuckle. Of all of the things she could be allergic to on the whole of her allergy panel, it was the same thing that causes me the most distress in the house as well, Bella. And how fitting it was, that I get a call from the vet only a few minutes after I had published an entry discussing how disgusting my cat—something that probably applies to all cats—really is.
I honestly don’t know why I keep her around. Every time I go into that awkward closet attached to my living room that holds her litter box, I take an iota of resentment and put it in my pocket for safe keeping. (This is better than the other things I could be putting into my pocket. There are a lot of disturbing things in there; random dead insects, a light bulb, cat feces. How ridiculous would it be if I started putting the light bulb in my pocket alongside the cat feces and resentment I already keep there? Also, I’m quite sure the insects died when they witnessed the terrible things that go on in that closet.) The part of me that matters the most must really love her, because the rest of me—and that really is the good majority—despises her.
I get mad at my loving, and loyal, dog for doing things inside the house that the cat does every day. The cat doesn’t even pretend to care that I don’t like the things she does. Nor does she pretend to like me most of the time. What kind of world is this?