My cats have ear mites.

While this has almost no relevance to your life, it has become an important factor in mine. From health concerns to litter-box issues, and preferences for one type of mouse-on-a-stick over another, my cats have become an obsession.

This has done little to make me a more enjoyable person to be around. Generally an insufferable, albeit mildly endearing, crank, I've become a cooing mush-ball going on endlessly about my furry pals.

As you can imagine, my friends quickly grew tired of listening to me. Hearing someone talk about his pets is similar to watching someone else's vacation video, and listening to me go on for hours is like watching someone else pass a kidney stone.

The idea that I would even want a pet, let alone become a blabbering idiot over two of them, surprised the people who know me. I had always been a proponent of the philosophy that anything more complicated than a rubber plant required too much effort, and even as a kid, I had no interest in animals.

Dogs require walking and feeding, and due to "pooper scooper" laws, an owner must have an overly familiar relationship with their various waste products. Cats seemed even less likable, as the ones I had met did little more than sleep, pee on things and continually bite the hand that feeds them. My only experience with a pet, my brother's foul-tempered rabbit "Sniffles," left me believing that the animals were best either hung on a wall or cooked on the grill. Keeping one as a pet had as much appeal to me as hanging a beehive in my bedroom or keeping poisonous snakes in my bathtub.

This all changed when I met our first cat, a lap-loving calico named Calamity who makes my sofa cushions look aggressive. A perfect, undemanding pet in every way, Calamity's only drawback was her affection for us. Apparently, whenever we went out, Calamity spent her time crying and hiding under the bed. My solution to her loneliness problem, me becoming a hermit, unfortunately had a few non-cat-related drawbacks. It seems that most hermits also tend to be psychopaths with poor hygiene and houses littered with pages from their manifestos.

Since writing a manifesto seemed like a daunting task, and my girlfriend insists I wash daily, we decided to get a second cat. This, it turned out, was only a mildly less taxing solution.

Our second cat, a kitten we christened Noodles, has slightly more energy than Susan Powter on cocaine. And while we got Noodles as a gift for Calamity, the feline/human language barrier has made communicating that fact difficult.

Our two cats have spent the past month warily staring at each other until Noodles decides to leap on Calamity. Though this action seems well intentioned, Calamity always responds by hissing and hiding on top of the kitchen cabinets.

Unfortunately, the solution for two warring cats, at least according to various cat care books, is getting a third cat. And if the three cats still fight, you need a llama to even things out. Any more disagreements and you have to get a gazelle, which I'm pretty sure is forbidden by our lease. Whether we add a rabbit, a goat or a giraffe, I'm actually pretty happy with our existing menagerie. I've mastered the art of baby talk, and I'm even getting used to having all my clothes covered with fur. Perhaps I can come over to your house later and show you some pictures?