The revelation came in stages.

First I was forced to admit that, in the age-old “dog person” vs “cat person” dichotomy, I was solidly coming down on the side of the felines. Much to my dismay. Members of the cat camp seem way too emo/cardigan sweater/no muscle tone/Lifetime TV for me to want to join their ranks. Dog people, at least, play frisbee. Which is tough to do indoors. In my mind, dog people are out all the time getting exercise and Vitamin D with their best animal friends, while cat people sit at home, listening to Billie Holliday, drinking herbal tea and crying into their Siamese’s fur over an offhand comment that the Starbucks barista made two weeks ago.

Cat people are culturally not as “cool” as dog people, either. Take, for example, the expression “crazy old cat lady.” There is no canine equivalent. Take, as a second example, “crazy old cat lady in Brooklyn.” The next stop on the mental health train is disgruntled postal employee with access to an automatic weapon.

In reality, I think the personality types are less acurrately represented by ”dog” or “cat,” but by “people who enjoy the company of creatures they can’t discuss politics with” and “people for whom a non-response to a pointed question can be viewed as a threat.” When my dog doesn’t poop on command, it’s not that he doesn’t understand me; it’s that he’s purposefully holding out, waiting until I put him back in his room to empty his bowels.

I want to want to be a dog person. I really do. It’s just that a fifty pound, four-legged mealtime terrorist who still can’t grasp the command “SIT!” (let alone “heel,” “stay,” or “get the @!# out of the trashcan” isn’t my idea of a perfect house pet. Not that cats listen. Or learn. But they don’t weigh as much, so they’re easier to pluck off a countertop and fling across the room.

Cats also sit in your lap, purr, pretend they like you to get a belly rub. I can appreciate that. It’s basically what I did throughout my twenties. They’re full of attitude. The goofball, make-no-attempt-to-hide-their-curiosity, “hey, where’s the party? Oh! In the mud puddle!” dog approach to life is a bit more like the kid in junior high you never wanted to sit next to for fear that it would rub off.

Until I can lift more than ten-pound handweights, however, I guess I won’t be tossing the pooch out anytime soon…..