The next post is about my cat. His name is Stanly, Stan if you know him well enough. Stan came into my life, and coincidently my family's, in 2005. My parents live on about an acre of land in what some would consider a "semi-rurual"area of Sonoma County. There in the beautiful country side, I spent my adolescence kicking rocks and finding cats. For some unknown reason, people consider this to be the best place to drop off their pets when they no longer want them. Regularly we would discover our back field to be habitated by lonely people-friendly cats, hungry and desperate for pets. Apparently, people are confused when they get kittens. Just in case you didn't know let me explain.
Contrary to popular belief, kittens do not stay in their pint sized, gooey eyed, disproportionate bodies forever. Eventually they grow up. And they get big. And indpendent. And, let's be honest, not as cute. This is when confused owners take their domesticated cattens (term for kitten that's almost a cat) and drop them off in a field. On occasion, that field would be my parents' field.
That is how I met Stan. My mother is allergic to cats and vowed never to let us take one into the house. Stan was determined to make it in though. After a couple weeks of begging for entry, Stan succesffuly infiltrated the house.
Basically, no one will ever love me as much as Stan does. Fact.
Hopefully I am not the only one who has experienced this. If you've had a cat chew on your head while you sleep please let me so I can be reassured Stan isn't trying to pull some Sigfried/Roy Tiger maul shit.
