Somehow the damn ball of fuzz stops being a ball of fuzz and becomes Po. There’s something to the creature you come home to at night. There’s something about a being that you feed and clean up after, even as you’re grimacing through at least half those tasks.
There’s something to being a caretaker.
Oh, I’m sure I grudgingly liked him beforehand. I’m not saying I didn’t. It’s not as if I never petted him or slipped a few Whisker Lickin’s treats or kind words. He perched on my pillow now and again at night.
But ours was always a fragmented relationship, fraught with the possibility that he might scratch or hiss or just generally show his displeasure with my existence in the world. I’m a dog man. And Po knows it. Dog men are different than cat men. Dog men like beer. Cat men like other cat men. If you think that’s a stereotype, take a survey sometime. There are more limp wrists dishing out Fancy Feast than in the Castro on a hot Saturday night.
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