In my life, I’ve had or lived with a ton of different cats. I think 11, not counting ones we fostered. Some I lived with for pretty much their whole lives (except the very beginning, since we usually got them from the Humane Society), some only for a portion of their lives (one ran away, some were my mom’s, one went with an ex, that kind of thing).

But they were all different.

Still, some patterns emerge. There are the sweet cats. The smart cats. The asshole cats. The dumb cats. The lazy cats. The active cats. The healthy cats. The not-so-healthy cats. The cuddly cats. The aloof cats. The friendly cats. The cats who will run right out the door. And the cats who are content to remain safely inside.

I love them all. But it’s meant that I’ve rarely gotten to have much around the house that’s fragile unless it’s behind closed doors.

Rory and I love cats—including our current cats—so, so much. But we also hope to one day have a long break from pets, to give our allergies a break, and to allow us to put out nicer things that have been hidden away. And to travel without worrying about our kitties at home.

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