Katie Vaca

I love to hate cats.

I come from a family that doesn't particularly care for cats.

In fact, my mom not only dislikes cats very much, but she has an actual cat phobia.

And like any good old-fashioned familial conditioning, that fear has been passed down to me.

And despite my best efforts to avoid these creatures, somehow they have highlighted some pretty important moments in my life.

The very first conversation I had with my husband was regarding cats.

In 2009, my sister's dog had a litter of puppies and his family took my favorite one.

I don't remember exactly what I said, but I sent him a message on Facebook saying something along the lines of, I'm so happy for you guys, she's the best.

I do have remember exactly what my husband said to me.

It was one sentence and it read, I'm more of a cat person.

And I thought to myself, this guy is rude and he's a cat person, that's two strikes.

But my husband also happens to be tall, dark, and handsome, so what are you going to do?

A year later, we started dating.

And things got pretty serious, and we started to spend a lot of time together.

And as a result, I spent a lot of time with his cat, Frank.

Frank was an indoor-outdoor orange tabby.

He was a really proficient hunter, and he would bring in sometimes living, sometimes dead lizards, mice, hummingbirds.

And although I'm told this is a sign of love and affection, I did not care for having a half-decapitated lizard dropped into my lap.

And this was like immersion therapy for me.

I was having reoccurring nightmares that thousands of cats were coming in from every window and door of my house, going to scratch off my face.