I am officially “that person.”
You know, that person who thinks his or her pet or kid is the greatest pet/kid to have ever graced the face the Earth.
That person who shows off pictures of said pet/kid to anyone unlucky enough to be within view of his or her iPhone.
That person who tells stories about said pet/kid and thinks they are cute or funny or worth a darn.
That person who everything reminds them of said pet/kid and can’t help but tell you the thought running through their head about said pet/kid.
That person who dotes on said pet/kid like it’s his or her job.
Yeah. I have officially become that person.
And I officially hate myself for it.
My cat, Susan, came to live with me over the winter. At first it was just to help with the mouse problem I was having. Living near a grain elevator tends to result in mice, so I learned. I don’t like mice, so I got the cat.
She lived in the garage until I could get her fixed (figured that was the least I could for the surplus population of stray cats). Given the fact that it was cold and hanging out in the garage isn’t my idea of a good time, our relationship was OK at best. We’d say hello and goodbye in passing and hang out for a few minutes here and there. We were friends.
But after getting her fixed, we’ve grown a lot closer. Because the weather is much nicer and it’s in the great outdoors, I’ll sit on the deck out back and just chill with Susan.
She waits on the deck for me to come out of a morning and is always delighted to see me. She’ll even sit on the deck railings or the barbecue grill so that she can see me while I’m in the house.