Writer finds the
catwoman within

I have been known to make spontaneous and self-righteous proclamations that inevitably come back to haunt me. I once declared, "I'll never wear contact lenses -- I don't want something floating on my eyeballs."

That pronouncement went south when I saw colored contacts and just had to have green eyes. I also thought getting a tattoo was too gross and painful to consider. Four tattoos later, I am looking forward to my next one.

Then there's the one my friends still laugh about, "Couples should have sex at least five times a week." After nine years of marriage and two kids, I would rather get a good night sleep.

But the one thing that confounds family and friends the most is the fact that I recently adopted a cat. I have never, ever been a cat person. I made it clear many times in my life that I did not like cats.

My first bad cat episode happened when I was a child and my Auntie's cat Trixie bit and scratched me. It drew blood and the resulting wound hurt like heck, but because I was surrounded by siblings and cousins, I didn't want to cry and make a big deal about it. But it cemented my feelings that cats were pure evil.

My relationship with my husband Bill's cat Ricki was never very cordial. To Ricki, I was the nasty interloper who diverted Bill's attention away from her. When I married Bill, I became the dreaded stepmother to this hostile feline and for years until her death we barely tolerated each other.

A few months ago, my daughter's preschool teacher mentioned that her cat had kittens. Without completely understanding why, I blurted out, "Really? I'd like to adopt one!" I told her I would check with my husband, but was convinced Bill would embrace the idea.

Well, I was wrong. In fact, Bill was astounded that I would actually want a cat. He didn't want another cat. He reminded me of my constant complaining about his cat. While I conceded to that, I assured him that I would be the sole caretaker of this cat. Besides, I had already spent a lot of money on cat supplies.

WHEN WORD of my intention to adopt a cat reached my mother's ears, you would have thought I was considering a sex-change operation. I got "The Lecture" from mom -- something I had not experienced for more than 30 years. I was convinced my mother thought I had either stopped taking my medication or completely lost my mind.

Well, adjust the dosage and full steam ahead! A few days later, I brought home a tiny gray tiger-striped tabby and named him Mojo. I now understand why people love cats. How can life be bad when you are holding a warm, purring ball of soft fur?

One day as I was playing with Mojo and enjoying his "cat happy" sounds (my daughter's term for purring) I realized why I defied all logic and adopted a cat. I was having baby withdrawals. Age has put a damper on my child-bearing ability, but my maternal instincts had me yearning for someone to baby. And since my kids were getting too big to carry or to sit in my lap, I got my "baby fix" from Mojo, who wasn't complaining one bit.

Mojo doesn't mind when I coo and baby talk to him. Mojo doesn't whine when it's time to take a nap in the afternoon. (Naps to my kids just get in the way of life.) When I settle in for my Saturday afternoon nap, Mojo will make a "nest" in my long, curly hair and happily nap with me. And flushable cat litter makes clean up much easier than changing diapers!

So I have put another one of my pretentious proclamations to rest. Now that I have said "Hello!" to my "Inner Kitty" I can honestly say that I am officially and unequivocally a card-carrying cat person and loving every minute of it.