All My Patients Are Under the Bed [antikvár]

FOREWORD by Haskel Frankel I don't know if dog people know other dog people, or if parakeet people know other parakeet people. But cat people always seem to know other cat people. I think we seek each other out, and though we never really say it to each other, we consider ourselves superior to people who don't have or appreciate cats. I think what makes us feel superior is not that we have a cat in our homes, but that a cat has found us acceptable to live with. There's a thrill in that that a dog owner will never know. Love from a dog seems such an easy thing. Once a dog has given its love, that love is a constant. The dog is ever there, ready with licks and leaps whenever a human being requires them. That may impress dog people. To a cat person it isn't much. It is almost cheap, it's so easily come by. But love from a cat is special. When a cat is in the mood, it may give a lick or two with its rough tongue or it may leap into a lap and settle down. But none of these small miracles occurs because some human being has snapped his or her fingers or whistled. To a cat, human beings are an inferior, servile race, always to be kept in their places, with occasional rewards if they perform well. To love a cat is uphill work, and therefore very rewarding. This special but unspoken bond that exists between cat people explains all sorts of strange phenomena that take place in any big city. Like the sudden swooping raids that occur in supermarkets the minute a kitty litter sale begins or when the little cans of cat food that are usually sold for 35 cents go on sale at "3 for