Allergic to love

I kicked a cat this morning. Ready for this? I'll even say it again in efforts to produce some residue of guilt: I kicked a cat this morning. And I don't feel bad about it at all. Nope nothing. Please believe me when I say that I love most animals, and also that I pray my dear Auntie–to whom so generously feeds and shelters me–never reads this.

But this cat needs me so much. It's disgusting. After growing up with my beloved kitten for almost 12 years, I've become accustomed to a certain type of cat. Bubblegum was an independent woman. She ate when she wanted. Went out when she wanted. And pretty much just coexisted in the same house.

But now I live with a cat who must be fed from a can morning and night and let out and let in and–no matter how itchy and blood-shot your eyes become–must be held and petted and loved. He doesn't care. He has no opinion on the fact that you wake in the night to violent sneezing only to find him happily nestled at your feet. Or the reality that if you shut him out, your dreams will be quickly shattered by the sounds of him weeping outside your door.

Why does it make me so angry? Aren't we all just meowing for someone to love us? scratching outside someone's door at 2:00 in the morning, just so we can purr and claw them at the same time. Maybe this is why I'm bad at long-term relationships. Can't I just have a pretty man cat who doesn't need me too much and cuddles on my terms? What's the problem? I think I need to be kicked.