Though I'm not violently opposed to cats, one never knows when my coiled spring of athleticism might suddenly go off. So it was with considerable trepidation that I entered Wellesley Booksmith yesterday, Mom having received its email newsletter featuring, I believe, its first cat ever. Well, good for them, following the Golden Rule, etc. etc. etc., I charitably thought in the abstract.
After gorging on treats at both front and back counters, I paused. Was that a meow? Again I paused, tilting my gorgeous head and opening my sail-like ears to the fullest. My ears luffed during a lull, then became taut. A meow it was! And again, and again, and again.
Mom and Dad both claim to be allergic to felines, in the way of those who just don't like something. Grandma, for example, claims to be allergic to cilantro ("tastes like soap") when in reality, she's just hypersensitive, one of those rare supertasters with a questionable gift. My sister, however, is fond of all creatures, and one must love her for that, although I hope she never brings a c-a-t home.
So there I was, torn. Real, or not real? Being superaudio (if I may coin a term), I detected something robotic in the catlike utterance, and went to investigate. A tot was opening and closing a kitty book with its meowing electronic chip. Did the thrall of this toy last? I triumphantly can say, the book dropped to the floor when the tot beheld me in my awesomeness. Canines forever! Anyone know the Latin for beware of cat?