I wasn't a cat person from the start. I was a dog person. First, there was Coco, an adorable mutt who growled at all small children except me, then came Tai, a multicolored Lhasa Apso with an under bite that was nothing less than charming.
Then I was an adult, married and pet-less when along came a thin calico cat with bewitching green eyes. Abandoned by neighbors who had moved out of the apartment complex, she had made a home in a hole at the base of our building. Along with our friend and neighbor, we started feeding her and were delighted to see that she wanted to make herself at home in our apartment. We forgot all about our dreams of adopting a dog one day and opened our door to Valentine (aka: Lelee), who ruled the roost for 13 splendid years.
Our South Carolinian cat traveled with us to Boston and then on to Paris. She was the perfect Parisian cat, enjoying her morning brioche and snoozing in a patch of sun that warmed our bed in the afternoon. Her claim to fame was her relationship with two tiny stuffed rabbits: She would carry them around in her mouth while meowing.
Lelee passed away more than two years ago after a short illness (leaving us devastated). And here comes the big question: Are we ready to get another cat? I jump at any opportunity to see a cat, will take a furtive peak at cat adoption websites, yet, I hesitate. Out of "loyalty" to Lelee. But I know I'm being ridiculous. I tell myself that I should give a needy cat a home as a tribute to Lelee. There. That makes more sense. So I think I'm getting there...
In the meantime, I'm itching to visit the new "cat café" in Paris (I was turned away yesterday because I didn't have a reservation!). Coming soon: My next trip to the cat café (this time, with a reservation.)