Men are like Cats

I have been married nearly 8 years to a wonderful man.   I was with him when, holding our screeching first child, I looked at him with tears in my eyes and told him we had to leave the pizza parlour we both ran.  He went for a 4 year undergrad and 3 years of grad school and is now on the cusp of being a real, live, high-fallutin' lawyer.  His family is very, very Italian, and when we told them we were thinking of getting hubby a vasectomy, I was given this sage advice (read the following in a heavy Italian accent):  Men are like Cats!! Bah!  If you do this, they will get fat, and lazy, and sit around the house all day!!  Why you do that?  You go get a hysterectomy.  Don't make the man do it.
We laughed it off and got my hubby "fixed" anyhow because at the rate we were going he sure seemed to be broken.  This analogy is coming back to me more and more of late.  Hubby likes to be pet, marked me as his territory (with a lovely ring) and leaves little gifts for me around the house.  Gifts like socks on the living room floor, wet towels on the bed (less than 3 feet from where they would be hanging up), crusty bowls of cereal bonded permanently to the porcelain.  (How do corn flakes do that, anyways? They should build rocket ships out of old milky cornflakes.)  He doesn't get fleas, thank goodness, but if I leave him alone for a weekend he gets agitated and makes a huge mess of the house.  He's super cuddly, very, very furry, and goes into heat the moment you pet him. (TMI? I know.  Sorry.)  Perhaps I'm over-simplifying things for the sake of this post, but I found as I picked up the trail of random "gifts" this morning that it is easier to think of things this way.  Much less resentment, and a good measure of gratitude he hasn't left me a dead rat.

           Did I mention we're also taking swing dancing?  And yes, I know I'm catty too.

Update:  The other day, at a dance lesson, hubby walked up and batted at a cat toy.  True story!