I have a cat named Trevor. He’s an adorable little mutt that was just discovered on the sidewalk when he was a kitten. Without any adult cats around, and obviously a stray, we adopted him. Our elder cat, Caddie, was indifferent and the dog, Bella, was curious to say the least. Little Trevor grew up in no time and is currently attacking my shoelaces as I write this.
I understand some people don’t have pets for allergy reasons. And I can understand that some people don’t have pets because work or other demands of life make it all but impossible to take care of a pet. But at the same time, I’m not sure I can really consider a house without a pet a real home. There’s something about the animal addition to the household that just makes it home.
I recently moved and in that process, I nearly lost Trevor. Terrified of the moving process, he managed to get out of the car and disappeared into a drainage pipe. It took over an hour to coax him back out. And all the while, an eagle/falcon/large bird of prey was circling overhead (it never rains but pours with me). The thought of losing my cat was more than I could bear.
IS more than I could bear.
I truly don’t understand why these little varmints are so critical to my well-being, to my sense of home. I don’t know why this little ankle-bitter – that attacks my toes at night, plays fetch with balls of paper, and steals my
stuffed animals medals of manly awesomeness – is so critical to me. I don’t know why my cowardly dog that barks at every little thing makes the house a home. I don’t know why that crotchety old cat who does nothing but sit right in the way is a sign of home.
But they are. They’re part of the family.
And I’m so thankful they’re there.