When they were informed that their son was allergic to cats, my parents did what any parents would do: They went out and got four of them.
OK, that's a little misleading. We never have four cats simultaneously. Our suburban home was situated on a particularly dangerous corner of a major road, which led to the demise of Muffin, our first feline family member. I won't say I was happy to see Muffin go, but I will say that I didn't miss her growling and hissing and glaring whenever I so much as approached her. Years later, I did some volunteer work serving meals to senior citizens in our town. Many of them were delightful, but the bossy, ornery, impossible-to-please ones -- well, the experience of living with Muffin was probably good training for that.
Muffin was quickly replaced by Charlie Brown, a rambunctious scamp who made up with playfulness for what he lacked in basic situational awareness. One day shortly after acquiring him, we were backing out of our driveway and from the backseat I suggested that my dad might want to tap the brake. There, a few feet behind the bumper was little Charlie Brown, lazily rolling around on his back, swatting at some imaginary enemy in the air, oblivious to the 3,000-pound death mobile bearing down upon him.