RELATIONSHIP RAINS CATS AND DOGS

He is not a cat person.

That’s what he told me as soon as he found out we had two black felines. “I don’t hate them,” he said. “I’m just not a cat person.”

We’ll see, I thought.

One of our cats is your typical oh-it’s-you-and-I’m-so-very-bored variety. Her name is Winnie, and her usual greeting for strangers is a flash of fang followed by a heart-stopping hiss.

Lovely.

Our other cat, however, is Reggie.

Reggie has a sordid past. He has crawled into burning fireplaces and repeatedly leapt into large tubs of bathwater when he cannot swim. He once needed $800 worth of emergency surgery just to pee. He is why our handyman hacked out a chunk of plaster the size of Buffalo to free Reggie from behind the closet wall where he had landed with a thud after climbing behind the attic insulation. Covered in dust and mute from crying by the time he was rescued, Reggie was still Reggie, purring for all the happy humans as he strutted around the room like a conquering hero.

“Everybody,” I said, “loves Reggie.”

He shook his head. “I’m a dog person. I like to get on the floor and wrestle with a dog. You know, a little growlin’, a little rollin’ around. That’s what you do with dogs.”

Then he met our dog, a neurotic, quivering mass of pug named Gracie. The only thing she would ever wrestle is a T-bone, preferably medium rare.

“That’s not a dog,” he said, staring down at the wall-eyed creature desperately whimpering to make his acquaintance. “I don’t know what it is, but it’s definitely not a dog.”

Meanwhile, Reggie cast his net.

“Hi, cat,” he said one afternoon. I turned from the kitchen counter and saw Reggie wrapping himself around his ankles.

“Reggie,” I said. “His name is Reggie.”

“What’s he doing?” he asked as he stared at the slithering length of fur weaving in and out.

“He’s saying ‘Hi,’ ” I said.

Reggie leapt onto his lap. “Oh, no, buddy,” he said, shoving Reggie to the floor. Reggie jumped back up. He shoved him off again.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

Finally, he laughed and then patted his lap. “Oh, all right then. Come on.”

Thus, the romance began.

A few days later, Reggie pounced on the bed where the supposed dog lover was reading and wrapped himself around his neck like a woolen muffler.

“Whoa, there, buddy, whatcha doin’?”

He started to reach for Reggie’s head.

“Don’t touch his ears,” I said. “Reggie hates that.”

“Doooo you?” he said, rubbing Reggie’s head from ear to ear. “Do you really, really hate that, buddy?”

I gasped. Reggie shook his head so hard, it sounded like a horse’s whinny.

Then he purred.

It is a sobering moment when one realizes her pet is about as loyal as a hooker. Does he care that I was the one who fed him milk from an eye dropper when he was only five weeks old? Does he even remember my tearful embrace after the traumatic wall rescue? Does he, even for a moment, consider the tons of cat litter I have emptied for the benefit of his sorry little bottom?

Ho-no. Reggie has a new pal whose terms of endearment for him now outnumber the ones he has for me. When he walks through the door, he seldom yells, “Hi, honey!” anymore. Instead, it’s “Rehhhhhhhhgie. Where’s my Rehhhhhhhhhgie?” Guess who comes galloping on his floppy feet no matter how sound asleep he was when I called him.

It was time for a little soul-searching, some truth-talking, if you will.

He was lying on the sofa with his book held high so as not to disturb Reggie, who was sprawled across his collarbone.

“You know,” I said gently, tugging on his toes. “I think it’s time to admit it. You are a cat person.”

He looked at me as if I’d just asked him to sever a limb so I could use it to snake the drain.

“What are you talking about?” he said. “Reggie’s not a cat.”

He started rubbing Reggie’s ears. “You’re not a cat, are you, buddy? No, no, no. You’re a dog. Yes, you are. You know you are.”

Reggie just purred.