Crazy Cat Lady

One of my colleagues at work enjoys teasing me by calling me the “Crazy Cat Lady.”  He means it in good fun, but I wouldn't take offense even if he didn't, because I know I’m not.

First of all, I don’t think it counts when there are two of us.  Second, we only live with six cats, not thirty, and we haven’t added any to the fold since Elroy joined us in 2006.  Third, we have deep, personal relationships with each of our cats—it’s not like we’re hoarders or anything.

And really, would a “Crazy Cat Lady” sing individualized songs (in two-part harmony) with her husband to her cats whenever it’s mush time? 

Would a “Crazy Cat Lady” take one of the cats out on a harness to play on the swing set and slide down the slide like the other kids?

Would a “Crazy Cat Lady” drive back from a minor league NBA basketball game to her house because she couldn’t remember if she’d blown out a candle and what if Wanda jumped up and knocked it over and caught the house on fire and none of the cats could get out because we were enjoying ourselves at a basketball game?

Oh.  

Okay, maybe I am a Crazy Cat Lady.  I guess there are worse things to be.