It’s been said that the longer people have their pets, the more they become like their owners (and vice versa). As a long-term pet owner and animal lover, I find this to be absolutely true. For example, my cat is feisty and mean sometimes, but can be the sweetest thing when I least expect it. My other cat is made out of love, and rolls over for belly rubs. My third cat loves to be outside and wild, but never fails to come back at night. My fourth cat just wants to curl up into a ball and cry all the time. My fifth cat likes to have a glass of wine (or few!) when he gets home from work. My sixth cat reads the first four chapters of The Once & Future King and then loses interest; every year. My seventh cat has some really good ideas about how to fix the economy, but can’t get the math to work out. My eighth cat bought a leather jacket, but can’t get the nerve to wear it in public. My ninth cat keeps calling you and hanging up. My tenth cat has a newspaper subscription; only the weekend edition, which he usually just ends up dropping it on the floor and taking a nap on it. My eleventh cat keeps staring and staring at an application for commercial truck driving school. My twelfth cat knows all the words to Boy Meets Girl’s 1988 hit “Waiting For A Star To Fall.” My thirteenth cat voted for Nader in 2000 to make a point about the two-party system. My fourteenth cat scratches the corners of the couch, despite being firmly told “no.” My fifteenth cat will drop everything and watch Rudy or Remember The Titans whenever they come on TV, and end up in tears; he doesn’t even like football. My sixteenth cat lies and lies. My seventeenth cat keeps anonymously commenting “looks stupid" on YouTube videos of cute babies. My eighteenth cat is having trouble finishing his thesis, This Room Or That Room? Feline Indecision In The 21st Century. My nineteenth cat still says “all intensive purposes.” My twentieth cat doesn’t like to pass on rumors, but will share “unsubstantiated facts” with a little booze in him. My twenty-first cat has every intention of calling his mother tomorrow. My twenty-second cat loves to be cleaned by tongue. My twenty-third cat has a lot of apocalyptic anxiety, and turns it all into weird, dark, experimental video art featuring a puppet he made from his own hair that he calls “The Forever Mange.” My twenty-fourth cat thinks, okay, Glee is cheesy and commercial, but it’s got a lot of heart and introduced Journey to a whole new generation. My twenty-fifth cat knows there’s something moving in that box! Did you hear it! That scratching! Again! My twenty-sixth cat sleeps 20 hours a day. My twenty-seventh cat isn’t high, he’s just, like, thinking real hard about plums, man. My twenty-eighth cat loves to bat around toys… and ideas. My twenty-ninth cat wrote complete, detailed outlines for Star Wars prequels that are so much truer to the spirit of the original trilogy than the ones George Lucas made. My thirtieth cat eats off the plates of dinner guests. My thirty-first cat takes the name “Words With Friends” too literally, and over shares in chat. My thirty-second cat hasn’t seen a dentist in six years. My thirty-third cat just had a birthday; he doesn’t want anyone to make a fuss about it. My thirty-fourth cat’s had some work done, but you can’t tell. And my thirty-fifth cat is drunk with power.

As for my iguana? Dude is just chill.