My husband and I reconnected this past weekend with a delightful couple—transplants from Chicago—whom we first met several years ago courtesy of Gloria, one my best friends from Chicago. I first began working with Gloria in the early 1980s at the Art Institute there, and she has gone on to become a renowned art historian who publishes widely. She accepts that I have become a Cat Lady who writes a blog.
Gloria also loves cats, as do her friends who relocated here to pursue their careers. Over breakfast, we all traded stories about our cats, and I was the life of the party when I began to speak about one of our most fascinating felines, L.B. For some time, I have wondered about L.B.’s distinctly manly qualities.
I am convinced that, in at least one of his previous incarnations, L.B. was a man. He likes to watch football (he’s getting excited about the Saints' conference-final game this coming Sunday), he jumps to the sound of a beer can opening, and he blatantly loves women. I can only imagine what it must be like for him now, negotiating life inside of an overweight and furry body. I hope that he does not consider me to be dull.
Gloria laughed at my anecdotes of L.B. and said matter-of-factly, “So, he was once a man, he died, and he came back as a cat.” She got it, never questioning my theories of L.B.’s masculinity. Perhaps I can persuade Gloria to turn her well-trained eye on the art of feline living.
Query of the Day: What is the measure of a manly cat?
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