Here is a sweet Victorian illustration that I've always absolutely loved, loved, loved--and I love it even more so now, because it puts me in mind of my tiny twin granddaughters and makes me look forward to the day when they're having little tea parties with their dollies and teddy bears (and their Grammy, I hope). But they probably won't be wearing old-fashioned bonnets like these little ladies are (which is truly unfortunate!). And they better not have a cat. If they do have a pet someday, I really hope it will be a dog rather than a cat. Let me explain.
When I was growing up, my family had a dear dog named Taffy who lived to be 15. She was a mutt, white with big caramel-colored spots and huge, soulful brown eyes. She was the most loyal, obedient, and affectionate creature; she was composed, I believe, of nothing but smelly dog hair and LOVE. Taffy slept on my bed for years; and I grieved when, shortly after I got married, I was told that she'd died.
We also had many cats over the years. Some were nice enough, like our very first one--a black female officially named Licorice but called simply "Kitty." She was such a good-natured cat, and she was so attached to people that I think she may have had a bit of dog DNA in her. But we had some bad cats, too, and the very worst one of all was an evil black male named Harvey. He was a descendant of our sweet Kitty, but nothing like her. This cat was like something out of a Stephen King novel; he was an attack cat--I'm not exaggerating! And he was sneaky about it. Once when I was climbing up the stairs, minding my own business, he was lying in wait for me at the top. He cornered me on the landing and trapped me there by hissing, growling, and swiping at me with his claws. I kid you not: there was true blood-lust in those scary yellow eyes of his. Terrified, I yelled, "Help me! Harvey's going crazy!" and proceeded to cry like a little girl. (Well, actually, I was a little girl at the time.) Before this incident, I would advise my boyfriend/future husband to "just ignore him" whenever this cat pounced on him (I'm surprised that darn cat didn't break us up); after, I finally understood how bad Harvey really was. So, sorry cat lovers, but no, I am not a fan of feline pets. I just don't trust them.
To sum up today's post, here's what I wish for the twins: tea parties--yes; cats--no.
(Hey, this is a first: I've written a post that falls under the category of "animals," and it's not about my son's beloved dog Allie!)