I love cats.
If my landlord permitted pets, I would almost certainly share my home with a cat. 
In some ways, it would be my attempt to ease the loneliness that accompanies 
the search for the woman of my heart. A cat cannot replace a loving partner, 
but its presence, affection, and quiet companionship might soften the sense of solitude.

I still have boxes of cat food at home, even though it's been years since I last 
saw the cat that used to visit me whenever I was outside by my car.
The cat food expired long ago. So did the tea and the sweets that have 
been sitting in my house for years, some of them already past their 
expiration date in 2018. Yet I still don't hesitate to offer them 
to my children or to the occasional rare guest.

After my guest took some pictures of me, she had a small accident. 
She fell down a slope, injured her leg, and tore her jeans. To my shame, 
I felt no empathy at all. Quite the opposite. I actually felt a sense of 
satisfaction at her misfortune and even told her, 
"That's the right punishment for taking pictures of me."
 

What strikes me most is the contradiction: I take photographs of cats 
without asking their permission, yet I become upset when people photograph me
without asking mine. Rationally, I know the comparison isn't entirely fair, 
but it says something about how deeply my need for control affects my reactions.