|Exhibit A: The Hellspawn|
This foul demon has been against me since day one. His name is Hobbes.
Don't let the name fool you. He is not adventurous or philosophical like the Hobbes of Bill Watterson's universe.
This felonious feline made it clear early in our relationship that there would be no love lost between the two of us.
My allergies reciprocated. It was mutual loathing that has remained constant for over seven years. I knew his game, he knew mine. We steered clear of each other as best we could, and cursed each other under our respective breathes as we passed in the halls of the Shortridge estate.
But last week we came home from a few days away from the house, and this little animal had changed his M.O.
He was nice.
Never Trust a Man With Two First Names
We walked in the door, and the little orange gato was immediately rubbing up against my leg. He cooed affectionately as his back arched in exfoliatory bliss. I sluffed off the cat and continued up the stairs. The rest of the day was without note, and I went to bed early in an attempt to fight the fatigue that had been beating me down all weekend.
|Exhibit B: Not The Hobbes Your Thinking of|
"My biological response to your existence is to throw you across the room. I hope you realize this."
But his purring got the better of me, and I allowed him to sleep on me.
When I awoke, the cat was gone. In its place, my allergies had placed seven pounds of mucous in my airways. I labored to remove the muck in every way I knew how, but in the end, resigned myself to a day of phlegm-filled fun.
Later that day, I was lounging on the couch, removing more congestion from my lungs as I watched nothing-in-particular on the television. I dozed to the sound of some rerun not worth remembering, when again, a cat appeared on my stomach. This time, Hobbes insisted on laying on my upper chest, rubbing his face affectionately against my chin. At first, I resisted, but as before, the cuteness won me over and I allowed him to purr his way onto my chest.
After an hour or so of this lovey-dovey routine, I realized that I was likely dying from respiratory failure. My throat was closing with defensive boogers, vainly attempting to stop the siege of cat hair from entering my lungs. My eyes were watering so bad that they could put out a Texan brush fire, and every fifteen to thirty seconds, my nose would expel a viscous plume of mucous that paid reverent homage to Slimer from Ghost Busters.
It turns out that Hobbes was actually trying to destroy me. Like a double-agent, he warmed up to me, got my guard down, and then went in for the kill. And it worked like a charm. I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.
Keep Your Friends Close and Your Enemies Closer
The lesson learned from this feline fray is this:
|Exhibit C: Pay No Attention to the Cat on the Refrigerator|
OK, so the comparison kind of fell apart there at the end.
Just remember: Even as you should not back away from peace, You should also be hesitant to rush headlong into bed with your adversary.
They may be trying to give you a parasite. I'm just saying.