Ten years ago, I allowed my (then) 16-year-old daughter to talk me into getting a cat to keep my mother (het grandmother) company after her cat died. My daughter searched around and found a cat at a local town-owned animal shelter. The next day, she dragged me in to meet him. As I approached the cage, a maniacal tiger tried to attack me through the metal bars, clawing, hissing, and spitting at me. "This is the cat you wanted to get Grandma?!" I asked her. An immediate nay vote was cast on that psycho feline. I made my way to the next cage and saw a seemingly docile appearing kitty lying in the back of her cage. The sign said her name was Rizzo so I looked into the cage and gave a casual, "Hi, Rizzo." The kitty got up; walked over to my side of the cage; and, purring incessantly, rubbed up against the door so I could pet her—sold!
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