Cat Person.

I need to get something off my chest. I’m not just talking about the crumbs from the party pie I just ate lying down. It’s a confession. An admission that I struggle with on a regular basis, and have finally decided to stop concealing. Here it is, I'm just going to say it.

I like cats. That’s a major understatement – I frigging love cats. Ladies and Gentlemen... I am a Cat Person.

You see, the reason I keep this concealed is because of the unpredictable response. I’m looking at you, Dog Person. Now, I quite like canines. I never had one growing up, but I’m not opposed to their happy nature and licky love, despite a scary experience as a kid. When I was about five, a friend had a big St Bernard dog. One day, the dog stood looking at me for about two minutes. That’s the reality. But in my over-imaginative memory, a rabid dog with blood and saliva dripping from his fangs snarled and snapped at me for hours as I cowered under a chair. Despite that scarring experience, I still like most dogs (though I’m scared of that Beethoven fella). And even if I didn’t, I would never criticise dogs to a Dog Person. So why do we Cat People get so much shit??

If you want an awesome half hour, google 'Cat memes'. I did and I'm NOT ASHAMED.

 Cats are great. I GET them. They like cuddles with the person that provides them food. They like stretching their backs. They reeeeeally like napping. I’m a fur coat and a meow away from being a cat myself. The happiest day of my life began when my Mum and I found four one-day-old kittens in a gutter, getting eaten by ants (not such a good day for them... but wait, it ends well). We took them home and I got to snuggle them for SIX WEEKS. They opened their eyes after a few days to Mum and I smothering them with love – I bottle-fed them, tucked them in, named them, took photos of them, and floated on a cloud of happiness for a month and a half. Winky (not a euphemism, he had one eye open when we found him) sadly died after a week (yeah... it didn’t end well for all of them...), but the other three went to happy Cat Person homes. 

My Dad holding the happiest moments of my life.

Despite the warm and fuzziness of this little anecdote, I know that it’s only for a selective audience, because only a Cat Person wants to hear a cat story. A Dog Person wants to call me a crazy cat lady, tell me about feral cats and allergies, and ironically not show any of the non-judgemental happy nature and licky love that their beloved canine friends possess. Well, Dog People, I’m singing out loud and proud. I love cats, and I’m no longer going to be ashamed of it. I have even typed ‘kitten videos’ into YouTube more than once. I’ve got other confessions too. Things that I hesitate to admit, not just to Dog People, but to All People. Until now. Deep breath...

I love Hanson’s song MMMbop and I still listen to it regularly. And Human Nature. And B*Witched.

I still occasionally sleep with my teddy bear, and I apologise to her sometimes because I fear she feels rejected.

I love the show Toddlers and Tiaras.

Growing up, I had major crushes on Aaron Carter*, Ian Thorpe and the red-headed Planeteer, Wheeler.

I hold my breath when I go past cemeteries, and I try to hide it from passengers in my car by being really subtle (until now).

I don’t really know what superannuation** is.

I have made a wish upon a star pretty much every day of my life that I can remember.

I’d rather listen to Gold FM than Triple J.

I believe in the existence of aliens, a parallel universe, ghosts, fate, and Santa’s workshop (but not necessarily Santa... it’s hard to articulate).

I love Harry Potter. Like... I LOVE Harry Potter.

That’s enough confessions for now. It feels good to get all of that off my crumb-covered chest. Fingers crossed I don’t die of shame overnight. But just in case I do, if I have any friends left – Cat People, Dog People, secret-shamers or Triple J fans – please know that I love you.

And cats. I love you, cats.

*This is one of the biggest confessions of all, because I pretended to my best friends that the poster of Aaron Carter on my wall was only to cover up a crack in the plaster. Girls – you shamed me for years to try and get the truth, and this is it. I loved that orange-overalled, bowl-haircutted little dork with all of my 11-year-old heart.

**Yes, people have tried to explain it to me. No, I don’t really listen. Superannuation sounds like a superhero, and I prefer to think of him that way.

By Lucy Gransbury. Follow her on Twitter @LucyGransbury. Or follow her in real life. She is probably apologising to her teddy.