The Way My Mind Works

So yesterday I go to my gynecologist's office for more skin stuff, and I open the door and walk in and gasp in delight:  there behind the front desk sits the doctor, working at his computer, and sitting between him and the monitor, right next to the keyboard, is a black and white cat, the look on his face very clear: "Excuse me, but I'm right here, OK?"


I've been going to this doctor for over a quarter of a century, and he's never had cats in the office. Oh, sure--he's always had cats, and we've talked about cats and looked at photos of his cats on his phone and his computer, but not real live cats. As you might guess, I was delighted. He has a private solo practice and has been at this a long time, and if someone doesn't like his having cats in his office, well, let's just say he's not going to care a whole lot about their opinion. And I got to thinking about it, about people who would complain about cats and might argue that cats are unsanitary (and, yeah, I know all about cats and cleanliness and blah, blah, blah. I've had cats since birth and have cleaned up after them and cleaned them and know how they clean themselves, OK?). But here's how I look at it: I don't ever worry about Feline Contamination. I've never caught anything from cats, not even ringworm when I worked with cats who had it, back in the days at Animal Control. I don't worry about getting cat hairs on me. I live with cat fur on me, on my clothes, in my eyes and nose and hair. So what? What creeps me out is the idea that if I take my shoes off in a doctor's exam room and walk across the floor in my socks, I could well come home later and find someone else's pubic hairs in my shoes.


Stray. Pubic. Hairs. In. My. Shoes.


Let's think about the horror of this for just a moment. 


I like my shoes. Heck, I love some of my shoes! But if I found someone else's pubic hairs in them? Omigod. I can't even think about what I'd do.


Cat fur? Bring it on.