![]() ![]() In petdom, as in so many other things, America is a nation divided: slightly more than half of all US households own a pet. When a friend’s pet would die and she’d call or come over to sob uncontrollably, I’d have to fight off the question, “Seriously? Over a dog?” From the outside, pet people are undeniably odd: they talk in unnaturally high-pitched voices, even when their pets aren’t around they spend lots of money on feathers and balls and plush beds they’ll never sleep on they voluntarily clean up animal poop. We also had a running joke about how my siblings had begged my parents for a dog and got me instead! Ah-ha-ha! Luckily for everyone, that plan failed.įor most of my life, though, I never understood pet people, because I wasn’t one. ![]() We did have pets, somewhat, when I was a child: a procession of goldfish (one brought home in a plastic bag from a Purim carnival, and two that followed when it died) and a Venus flytrap, which was named Zoe and was technically my sister’s. Okay, maybe not crippling depression and loneliness, considering CE didn’t begin until four years ago, but there’s no question that there was a void - a snuggle-shaped void waiting to be filled. The BCE years were a dark time, and largely a blur - there was depression, loneliness, a lack of snuggling. ![]() SOMETIMES I THINK MY LIFE IS DIVIDED into two distinct phases: the Before Cat Era and the Cat Era. ![]()
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