I am NOT an animal person. My favorite kind of dog is stuffed. People who kiss their pets on the lips or let the animal lick them in the face kind of gross me out.
But a few years ago, I chaperoned a Girl Scout field trip to the Humane Society. That's where I saw "Smokey," a little gray kitten who'd been there for six weeks or so. He was cute, I had to admit.
For the next couple of days, I couldn't stop thinking about that kitten. I worried that his days were numbered. I took Mike back o the shelter to look at him and we decided to take him home. I must have been under the influence of heavy drugs or severe lack of sleep, or both.
Nonetheless, a little bit of paperwork and a check for $100 and Smokey was ours. The kids were elated and for a few days, I was totally the coolest mom on Earth.
We renamed the kitten Dungy, after the head coach of the Indianapolis Colts, and bought him a blue Colts tag shaped like a dog bone. We bought cat toys and a special bed. We had officially become cat people.
And so how does Dungy repay me for saving his life? By biting my toes and meowing incessantly at me at 4:30am today. Darn cat. A simple thank you would have sufficed.
