Last night MoLinder yelled at me.
"Dude, stop trying to turn my cat into a dog! I want him to be chill. Like a nice, chill cat. Like Kitty." She looks over at her other cat, who is like, the quintessential friendly cat, all delicate and graceful. That cat cuddles like it's her job, demands attention from everyone, and is completely devoted to MoLinder.
"But he likes to play," I say as I grab him by his stomach and spin him around in circles on the hardwood. "Fuck you, Panther. I fucking own you." He gnaws on my hand, so I growl at him and try to make him fetch something.
"But he is not a dog. You don't understand. You don't like what your family has done to your dog."
"Dog? They don't exercise his brain enough. They let him get bored and now he's got all these bad habits. Smart things get into trouble if you leave them to their own devices." I push Panther away, and he pounces back. So I pull his leg. "And I totally taught Panther how to fetch things. We can teach him other stuff--"
"NO. I don't want him afraid of people and nervous, and the rougher you are with him the rougher he'll be with people. I know you want a dog, but you can't just turn my cat into one."
And she's completely right, because sometimes I think I could totally walk Panther around the neighborhood on a leash. But then I'd be The Weird Girl Who Walks A Cat, and I don't want people thinking I collect limited edition kitten Danbury Mint plates or something.