Let me paint you a picture. I was not a cat person. I thought cats were basically furry little divas who judged you from across the room, shed on everything you own, and only acknowledged your existence when you were about to sit down. I was Team Dog. Team “go fetch.” Team “unconditional slobbery love.” The kids missed their aunt Kakay who had cats and asked me to get them one for Christmas. Never thought a cat  would ever be intentionally living with us.

Then came Elvis.

The Siamese cat. Had to be one of those hypoallergenic breeds because, yeah I won the gene lottery where I'm allergic to just about anything. Never thought we'd get a drama king. The feline version of a soap opera villain in a fur coat. He wasn’t mine. He belonged to my daughters. That was the agreement. I was just the background character in the Elvis Show, also known as my house.

When we went to the breeder, I was ready to hold my ground. He took the whole litter of little kitties and placed them on the table. Every single one of them scampered off except for this little runt that just stared at us... Almost smiling and somewhat telling us how wonderful he was. I gave him the “don’t get comfy, buddy” side-eye. He gave me the “you already love me, human peasant” squint. So we picked him... Or maybe he picked us. I was annoyed to find out that you couldn't take kitties to the vet for seven days after getting them because they needed to be quarantined!

He was smelly and brown and he had FLEAS! He was peppered with gross fleas under his fur! I sighed heavily because both kids weren't great at holding him yet and the fact that he wasn't vaccinated yet, unnerved me. So I spent the morning wiping him down with pet-safe wipes and fine tooth combing his fleas off. 

I come to find out that this malnourished little beast wasn't even brown! He was damn near WHITE! All that brown was dirt! EWWWW!

Day one, he pooped on me and acted like I should be honored. Day two, he decided he didn't wanna deal with the kids and only wanted to do business with me. Day three, he would play nice if I gave him treats and a lot of attention. The kids would have his protection, I could work and continue to make him money as long as I paid the piper. Otherwise it was a playful love bite or bop on the head. He was definitely giving Mafia energy. Now kiss the ring, hooman!

And honestly? I kinda respected it. And so the manipulation begins...

One day, he jumped onto the couch, curled up on my chest and let out this low purr that sounded like a tiny motorcycle wrapped in velvet. I was like, “Okay fine, this is cute, but I’m not falling for it.” Then he slow-blinked at me like he was proposing marriage. How can you not say yes? I scratched behind his ears. He purred louder. And just like that, the conversion began. Elvis was in the building... and I was in denial.

Next Thing I Know, I’m googling, “Why does my cat stare at me like he knows my secrets?”

I’m buying specialty treats.

I’m apologizing to him when I walk by and he looks offended.

I’m arranging throw pillows so he has the good nap spot.

He’s not just a cat. He’s a lifestyle. He’s judgy. He’s needy. He’s mine (Kind of). More like I'm his?

Elvis doesn’t walk. He struts. He yells if his food is five seconds late. He sleeps all day and parties all night (by “party,” I mean chasing invisible demons through the hallway at 3 a.m.). He’s the boss of the house, and we all know it. He is an amazing mouser too. Any little critter scampering about is not safe. Our little murder machine.

But here’s the thing, he’s also hilarious. He’s snuggly when he wants to be, and petty when he doesn’t. He makes me laugh. He makes me slow down. He makes me feel weirdly chosen when he decides to grace me with affection.

So Yeah… I’m a Cat Person Now. I even have the cat shirts to prove it.

Do I talk to Elvis like he’s a human being? Yes.

Do I show people photos of him like he’s my child? Also yes. Do I find cat hair in places cats shouldn’t even be? Constantly.

And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He may have been my kiddos’ cat first, but he’s claimed me now. I live in his world. I just pay the bills.

Elvis has meowed his way into my soul

So if you see me with cat hair on my shirt, whispering sweet nothings to a blue-eyed furball, just know: I fought it… but Elvis won. The cat is my king. The sass is hereditary. And yes-- I now fully believe that cats are little weird, magical, fuzzy geniuses.

Long live the king!