Our house, is a very, very, very fine house.
With two cats in the yard,
Life used to be so hard,
Now everything is easy 'cause of you.*
Once upon a time, Fuzzy and I lived in a funky apartment that had been carved out of a rambling old house. It had hardwood floors, and a built in hutch, but no dishwasher, and while it did have two showers, there was no bathtub.
We did, however, have cats, for a while. This was before I knew that, like my mother, I am highly allergic to cats. I can visit with them, but I can't live with them, which is too bad, because I like them, really.
(Cleo is glaring at me, so I have to state that I like dogs better than cats, which is true, actually.)
To me, a home isn't really a home unless there are pets. Cuddly pets. Pets with personalities and quirks, and waggly tails. There's something magical about having a furry four-foot meet you at the door, something soothing about having them come offer cuddles or puppy-kisses when you're in a foul mood.
I knew where this entry was going, really, when I began it.
No, really.
Le sigh.
*”Our House,” Crosby, Stills & Nash