I am a dog person. Through and through. 100% bark-over-meow certified.

I love their loyalty, their goofy excitement over the mundane, and the way they flop over dramatically like life is a stage and they’re the main act (which they are). I have three. They’re my ride-or-die snuggle crew, my therapy squad, my moral compass delivered in side-eyes and tail wags.

And yet…

Someone recently told me I’m like an angry kitty cat. And, reader, I was momentarily offended—and then begrudgingly… intrigued.

Because apparently, I purr (when I want to). I have comfort preferences that verge on diva-levels (temperature, lighting, quietude). I determine when I want to be petted, metaphorically and literally. I like being left alone, until suddenly I don’t. And then, when I do seek affection, you better bring it right, or I’ll vanish faster than your boundaries.

I don’t cling. I choose.

Apparently, I’m a dog person with a cat’s psychological profile. Which is wild—because I’m also allergic to cats. Confirmed. Medically tested. Body says no, but personality says meow.

So what does that say about me? That I am drawn to the very thing that makes me sneeze? That I embody contradiction in my soul? Maybe.

Or maybe it just means I’ve got layers. And sometimes, those layers have claws.

Unpredictability is my love language. I am soft and fierce. I want connection, but I need solitude. I want your company, but not your chaos. I’ll show up with a side of sass and a tail flick of wisdom. Call it psychological purring.

And so, here I am—barking on the outside, purring on the inside. Snuggling my dogs while existing in the emotional posture of a moody cat curled up in a sunbeam.

Unbothered. Slightly annoyed. Deeply comfortable.

Now go away. But stay. But not too close.

You get it.