The whole world smells like cat food. This must be (I hope) a psychological thing unless some maniac broke into my apartment in the middle of the night and smeared Fancy Feast all over everything I own (much like the thief who broke into a woman’s car and, she claims, cut her sandwich in half diagonally). I think this cat food phenomenon has a lot to do with the fact that I was cat sitting for my friends for two days.

I haven’t been around cats in a long time. Well, I have been around the strays that dapple Brooklyn neighborhoods and several of my friends have cats that I duly try not to trip over when I visit but that’s about it. I haven’t had a cat I could truly call my own in what seems like over 22 years -- perhaps because it’s been over 22 years. Not since good ole Mason (my childhood cat originally named Tiger, renamed Chicken, and bent on ignoring all three monikers). Mason must have been the most patient feline, putting up with little red wagon rides, hectic rocking chair rollicks (I would tell him that’s what it’s like to be on a train) and even enduring booties tied to his hind legs.

On the opposite end of the tolerance spectrum we had my ex-boyfriend’s cat, Radar. Although I lived with Radar (and the boyfriend) for a number of years, I am hesitant to deem him a cat of my own. Especially since my ex had taught him to pretend to relish in your petting only to turn around out of nowhere and take a big chunk out of your arm.

My friends’ cats, all glorious three of them, did not bite although they did get a little rambunctious at the end of day two. Since there are three felines of different ages all sharing a household, a quite natural thing occurs. They start acting like the "Brady Bunch." So let’s just say Marsha (a.k.a. Tiggy) got a little feisty with Cindy (a.k.a. Cairo) when I paid what she thought was too much mind to the younger tot. Jan (a.k.a. Rossy) spent much of the time in the bathroom, avoiding both the fray and the attention-getting parade altogether. I was certainly pleased when, from the very onset of my first visit, all three greeted me on the stairs, so wonderfully welcome to a weary traveler who has been much too long without cats.

I found the cat sitting stint was much like dying your hair. Regardless of how long its been since your last experience, it comes right back to you -- Mahogany #57 staining the shower curtain and all. In this case, I remembered some very vital cat-owning facts. Like they always puke in the middle of the floor at 2 a.m. In the case of the Brady three I cannot truthfully attest if it was, in fact, 2 a.m. when the "event" occurred, but it was in the middle of the floor. And yes, I cleaned it up. What kind of cat sitter lets the owners come home to cat puke? That’s like parents coming home to a babysitter who let the kid wallow in a dirty diaper.

Speaking of diapers, yes, I scooped the poop, even though I said I wouldn’t. My mind was changed when I mentioned to someone I was cat-sitting and he immediately replied: "You GOTTA scoop the litter." Hence guilt produced a clean litter box.

I also remembered how much fun cats could be. Cat nip is a blast. So is the Cat Dancer, a toy comprised of a piece of wire with a chunk of cardboard tied at the end that sells for $2.99, the inventor of which is surely a millionaire. Although my friends do not have a Cat Dancer per se (we try to save our money instead for things like the Salvation Army), they do have a similar toy with feathers on the end.

Not to have cat sat all in vain, I also felt the appreciation the cats gave me back -- not only in Marsha’s incessant purring, but with licking my hand and simply greeting me at the door. Marsha also appreciated, I am sure, our meditation session during which I asked her to think about what it was like to be a cat. And Cindy must have been the most thankful of them all, not only showing extreme joy at all my lavish attention, but giving me a fine farewell I shan’t forget anytime soon.