Sometimes the right person is just wrong for us, and sometimes the right person simply does the wrong thing. We are drawn in by their charm, their good looks, their sweet low purr, the lustrous shimmer of their hair. We want to believe that they are so right, that they could do no wrong.
This happened to me in Brixton Village where I met a dashing young tom cat by the name of Craig Cricklefinch.
He was lithe, graceful and handsome – with a ginger coat that shone like the orange glow of a sunset reflected from the sword of King Arthur himself. He flirted with me, rolling over in elaborate demonstrations of affection, rubbing provocatively against my legs, drawing me ever deeper into his world of feline fun through his irresistible cattiness. I was won over. He was a champion, a king amongst cats. Like the third bowl of porridge, he was…just right. A perfectly pawed pal who had won my heart.
But then, like so many of my former lovers had done, right before my eyes, he went and defecated in a pot plant, crushing the world I once believed in, mercilessly morphing the kaleidoscopic rainbow of romance into a brown parcel of regret upon a blameless Yucca plant.
Sometimes something is so right that it just has to be wrong.