My roommate abruptly informed me on Friday that a hand-me-down cat would be coming to live with us. I'm not a cat lover. One of my best friends from childhood had three cats: Fancy, an obese tabby, who when lying on her back would begin wheezing under the suffocation of her own fat; Bandit, a ferocious dog-fighting tomcat who frequently ravaged my unsuspecting socked feet; and Milo (or something), a decrepit old cadaver of a cat who spread a thin layer of brittle hair over everything he touched.
I hate the dander that animals invariably get on every object in the house, I hate having to them become living trip wires as I groggily move through the hall in the mornings, and I HATE how 95% of pet owners baby their animals instead of training them properly. At least I was able to cunningly convince my roommate to change the cat's name from "Frisky" to something less stereotypical. To be fair, "Bear", as he's now called, has actually made me smile a couple times this weekend. His curiosity is comical and it was pretty funny when he climbed into my open guitar case.
For better or worse I'll have to deal with the cat for the next few months. Anyways, here's some pics of "Bear".