I’m very fond of cats, in general, and for the past couple of weeks I’ve been particularly missing having one of my own around the house. I haven’t had anything to shed on me or claw up my furniture - well, nothing feline anyway - since I moved to New York over three years ago. Even if I were allowed one in my apartment, I don’t feel I’m home enough to really take care of a pet. I can barely handle a houseplant with my current schedule, and there aren’t even vet bills involved in that.

However, despite my constant, nagging desire to just give in and get a kitten or something, I’m once in a while reminded of one of the many reasons I can be glad I don’t have a cat. Usually, it’s the smelly canned food or the hair I don’t have to perpetually and ineffectually try to remove from my clothes, but once in a while - just every so often - it’s that troublesome radioactive poo.