A Hairy Situation
I had all sorts of pets growing up. A golden retriever named Candy, Willie the Maltese, a few goldfish, a bird (which came and went with an ex), and in my micro studio I had Fred the Cockroach. (Every new cockroach, even though I killed the previous one, I named Fred.) Pets can be wonderful companions. They cheer you up and are always happy to see you when you get home.
Like Harry. He’s loyal, friendly and though I’ve only had him a few days, we bonded immediately. He doesn’t come when I call, but that’s okay, he’ll learn. Plus, he’s not too loud, which again, is good considering my Co-Op rules.
“He’s adorable!” a friend said when she met him. “Is he high maintenance?”
“Not at all,” I told her. “He’s quiet, sleeps through the night, and oh does he purr.”
Which is one of the reasons I got him.
But not to Harry.
When I’m working at home I turn him on and he skittles around the furniture, playfully sneaking up under my feet, slipping into places I could reach, but choose to ignore. The best part, he’s not afraid to venture under the bed, which is where he does his best work, leaving me time to do mine.