All right, I admit it. I was a self-confessed doorknob polisher. You know the type. Every can in the cupboard lined up military-style with its label facing forward. No can upside down, no dents or dimples on the tin (the risk of botulism!), and the labels pristine, never ragged or torn. Classification was as important as appearance. Vegetables were stored with vegetables, fruits with fruits. Still, peas were not stored beside corn. I had good reasons. Obviously, color: Peas are green, and corn is yellow. Besides, everyone knows peas are legumes. Thus, peas and corn couldn't be allowed to indiscriminately
mingle on a single shelf.

Elsewhere in the house, a crooked picture made me twitch. An open drawer with an inch of sweat sock hanging out had me searching for the nearest bottle of Zoloft. I don't need to tell you that a dust-bunny didn't stand a chance around my house. Not only could you eat off my floors, you could
perform open-heart surgery on them.

Until I got the cats.
As you've probably observed, cats remain notoriously indifferent to others' wishes. It's not that they mean to be disdainful, but, elegant and aristocratic, they can genuinely claim royal lineage and display the very epitome of majestic attitude. Their unwavering stare is nothing less than regal. Then witness their incredible gymnastic ability and talent for catapulting themselves to places thought unreachable, and you understand the depth of their complete lack of respect.
Not only that - they have fur.

Fur that comes out all over the place, fur that layers sofa cushions and area rugs, fur that winds up in your toothpaste and on your little black cocktail dress. Fur even winds up in an obscure corner of the La-Z-Boy—looking like a repulsive version of a Tootsie Roll-shaped nut bar—as a hairball.

So you can imagine how far in the loosening-up department I've had to go. Flexibility is not my strong suit. It never was.
I think it's a genetic thing.

As a kid, I had foisted upon me a series of cold-blooded creatures that were purchased as substitutes for cuddly, high-maintenance pets. No puppies or kittens for me! My folks, both working parents, persuaded me that a goldfish or a turtle could be just as fulfilling as something warm and furry. A bribe in the form of a Caravan Bar (remember those?) and a bottle of Jersey Cream Soda always made the alternatives to "warm and furry" seem much more appealing. I think that I would have gone for a baked potato at the bottom of a fish tank had I been plied with enough sugar.

At any rate, after more than fifty years of pet deprivation, at last I resolved to get the animal-child I had always wanted. Thanks to a desperate plea by his owner in the pet-giveaways section buried deep within the classifieds, ragdoll cats (Siamese mixed with Persian) came to live with me. Solomon, my gentle, fearful Buddha-cat and the playful Mona Lisa , they proved to be the instrument of an amazing, life-changing transformation.

For one thing, I stopped wearing black. I even tossed the charming little black cocktail dress. And I really like black. It's dramatic. In fact, I stopped wearing dark-colored clothing altogether. I just couldn't be bothered. The upholstery and the carpeting were more complicated. How many hours of the day did I really want to vacuum? I decided that I couldn't be bothered.

I overlooked long white hairs the consistency of fishing line. I squinted myopically at my houseplants when I watered them; the sweater of white cat-fluff that coated the leaves actually made them look fuller. I ignored the dusty paw prints dotting my countertops, appliances and the glass doors of my china cabinet. They could be brushed away with a careless swipe of my sleeve. Did I really want to obsessively follow my cat around with a cloth and bottle of Windex? No way; I couldn't be bothered.
I couldn't believe it! Had I actually said, I couldn't be bothered?

I'm not sure when the epiphany came, but the moment of insight slammed into me like a tractor-trailer loaded with perishable food late for a delivery. I had actually let go, chilled out. I found myself on the road to change, saying good-bye to my anal-retentive ways. Without even realizing it, I had made a life-altering choice. I had opted for a fur-covered existence, a permanently fluffy ambience, a softer world with a little less shine.

Now don't get me wrong. I'm not saying I turned into Oscar Madison. I'm not wiping my jam-covered hands on the drapes yet. But what I have done is cut myself, and the others I live with, some significant slack. Peas and corn amicably dwell on the same shelf in the cupboard, a crooked picture goes unnoticed for days, and sweat socks can hang out until the next time the laundry gets done. I'm saving a fortune on prescriptions.

Truth is, I'm pretty proud of myself. When friends express wonder at what's happened to me (in a good way), I know what they mean. I hardly know myself. No more worrying about little things that don't matter - let me tell you, it feels great! I do have one question, though: Is Cat-lover spelled with, or without, a hyphen?

{author unknown} should you know this info
please let me know and credit will be given

**KC**