I adopted a cat from the shelter specifically because the paperwork said "does not like to be held," figured that matched my personality perfectly, low maintenance, mutual respect, two independent creatures coexisting.
Three days in, I discovered the shelter had drastically undersold this. She doesn't just dislike being held. She treats any attempt at physical affection like an act of war, flattens her whole body, makes a sound I can only describe as a kettle achieving sentience, and once bit my ceiling fan pull chain out of what I can only assume was pure spite transference.
I called the shelter to ask if maybe I'd been given the wrong cat by mistake.
The woman on the phone pulled up her file and started laughing before I even finished the question. "Oh, Gremlin. Yeah. We usually don't mention this part, but she bit three different volunteers so bad they had to reassign her intake paperwork to whoever hadn't met her yet."
I asked why they even let people adopt her.
"Because somebody has to," she said, completely deadpan. "And honestly, she picked you. She let you carry her to the car without incident. That's basically a marriage proposal from her."
It has been two years. She still hisses if I make direct eye contact for more than three seconds.
I have never once tried to hold her again. We are, by her definition, thriving.
Making out with someone and hearing them moan between kisses is unbearably attractive. But whining into their mouth and feeling them smile against your lips letting out the smallest laugh between kisses because they know exactly what they’re doing to you might be even better.