I have a very short list of preexisting relationship conditions that would keep me from dating someone. So long as you're not on the run from the law (international courts count, btw,) addicted to meth, or a terrorist, chances are I'll probably date you. But if you own a cat, no dice. My dislike for felines is both medical and philosophical.
You might think my prejudice towards cats is based solely on my near-debilitating allergy to those whiskered critters. Just the mere suggestion of dander causes my eyes to crawl out of their sockets, lungs to fill with fur, and a deep, red carpet of curdled flesh to break out all over my body. But no, I also have issues with the species. On a slightly related note, I also don't find Garfield funny, even if I too hate Mondays and lo-o-ove lasagna. That I am a loud and proud Leo is just one of life's interesting little ironies.
I have tried to date women with cats, but it has never worked out. Their devotion to Appleseed or Silly Britches always straddles the border between Creepistan and Bonkersville. Most women with cats I've known dote on their meowing parasites with the brainwashed fidelity of a cultist. Remember: every crusty old cat lady on A&E's gross-out shockumentary show "Hoarders" started out a nubile young cat lady. That's right. Also, let's not forget that Little Darling would have no qualms about eating Grandma's face if she keeled over, either. Don't get me started on LOLcats. Can I haz flamethrower? Cats are not cute, they are sinister. More on that in a bit.
Oh, and then there's the whole fact that the furballs turns me into a wheezing avalanche of snot.
I swear I have an actual reason for despising kittehs. But many a potential relationship has screeched to a halt because of one woman's obsession with an animal that was exclusively designed by nature to kill at night. I picked a woman up at a club once. While I've spent many years trying to convince chicks to take me home using a potent cocktail of charm, devilish good-looks, and subtle begging, I've more often than not been shot down like an X-wing fighter gallantly dogfighting above Endor. So this one woman was a real prize: she was stunning, laughed with her belly, and when I offered to buy her a drink, she was there, waiting for me, when I returned. We got tipsy, and as my fingers lightly stroked her elbow, she leaned into me and asked if I wanted to go home with her. It all felt so right, and sweet, and I was so happy -- Christmas morning on a late Friday night.
The cab ride was it's own story -- our driver had deep-seated, and unfulfilled NASCAR dreams. We stumbled up to her place, stopping at the door to sloppily indulge in one of those close-eyed kisses where mouths find each other using magnetism. Once in the door, however, it hit me. Freakin' kitty litter. I was a trooper, and decided that I would use my mind to overcome the inevitable. She was gorgeous, made Star Trek jokes, and, you know, a man has needs. I would not be deterred. It started with a tickle in the back of the throat, but The Champ would not let a little thing like an allergy get between him and carnal awesomeness. But with every lick, and grind, I became more and more congested. My eyes watered. Hives bloomed. Apparently, my asthmatic death rattle was not a turn on. She offered an antihistamine, but I could have injected liquid Benadryl directly into my eyes, and it wouldn't have helped. I told her I was allergic to cats. Her face fell. We could never work. It was me or the cat, and the monster had squatters rights. Not to mention her heart.
I'm not bitter about my infirmity. Nopers. Watch a cat dream. You know what it's dreaming about? Being a saber-toothed tiger, and snacking on a Cro-Magnon's noggin. If hostile aliens were to arrive on Earth and offer cats and dogs opposable thumbs, and laser rifles, two things would happen. Cats would jump at the opportunity, and blast the dogs away, then go to work on humanity. I am opposed to cats because they see us as Disposable Food Bringers. Purring is just their manipulative way to get us to feed them, and they resent having to do it in the first place. They do not love you. They will turn on you.
But dogs? Never. Too dumb. And too shnookum-shnuggles-kissybowwowface!
If you have a cat, I will not date you. And apparently, you will not date me. Let us all move on.