I do not care for cats. Yes, they can be fluffy and cute, but I don't trust 'em any further than I can throw 'em. Actually, that's a lie. I could throw a cat clear across the room, but I wouldn't trust it a centimeter. I get creeped out by the feeling of a cat's paw walking on my lap, I don't much care for them brushing past my shin, I don't like the chilly little nose, and I certainly don't enjoy their tongues.
It all goes back to when I was about five years old, and a neighbor's housecat got out. My sister went to pet the pretty kitty, but the pretty kitty was alarmed by this. The pretty kitty bit a chunk out of my sister's thigh, took a few nibbles out of her knee, and raked long claw marks up her shin. I got shunted off to the next-door neighbor's for a few hours (they had a vinyl-covered couch, and vinyl pathways protecting the mottled harvest-gold shag carpet—oh, the trauma!) while my parents took my sister to the emergency room (that's "casualty" for you Brits, isn't it?). My sister had long, narrow strips of first-aid tape striping her shin, small bandages on her knee, and a big dressing on her thigh wound. Cats being filthy and disgusting creatures (Do you dispute this? What do cats lick? Every part of their hairy bodies. Plus they walk in their toilets.), of course, that big bite wound became infected. My sister still has a good-sized scar on her leg, and I still bear the mental scars—an abiding mistrust and fear of cats. You can tell me your cat is sweet and loving, but I still won't trust it and won't want it on my lap.
This post was inspired by Becky's post on her gay cat, where I left a comment about my childhood pet's sexual proclivities. Yes, our English springer spaniel Abby (officially named Lady Aberlyn, after that freaky lady from Mister Rogers' Neighborhood) livened up every slumber party my sister and I had. We'd grab somebody's pillow, plant an idea in Abby's dog brain, and next thing you know, somebody's pillow is getting the humping of a lifetime. Some dogs hump people's legs, but our dog had a fetish for pillows. (Does this make you want to hear My Humps?)
A friend of mine once had two cats named Nigel and Mr. French. I believe it was Nigel who was a sexual deviant. His owner would wake up to discover Nigel gripping the blanket in his teeth, pulling it back and forth in his crotch. Sometimes he'd be in another room with a blanket, but getting off on the blanket in private wasn't good enough. He'd drag the blanket into the room where his owner was, strictly to have an audience when he yanked his blankie.
Another friend of mine has a boyfriend named Nigel, who apparently finds it surprising that Americans think "Nigel" is kind of a silly name, and breathtakingly British. (We do.) As far as I know, human Nigel has never heard about cat Nigel, but now that it's on the Internets, his girlfriend can send him the link and spare herself the indignity of recounting the sordid tale aloud.
I know Blogger has been misbehaving lately and making it hard to read or write comments, but if you luck out and it actually works, feel free to share your own stories of perversity in the animal kingdom, ailurophobia, or Nigels. (Something for everyone, eh?)