Japan buried me in cats… and California is my unexpected detox program
If you’ve spent more than five minutes with me, you know two things:
I lived in Japan for quite a while.
I will buy literally anything if it has a cat on it.
Japan, of course, turned this harmless preference into a full‑blown lifestyle hazard.
Walking around Tokyo or any Japanese town basically meant being ambushed, lovingly, relentlessly, by felines. They appeared on stationery, on chopsticks, on tea cups, on train passes, on socks, on umbrellas (yes, I owned that umbrella), and of course on an infinite array of snacks. I had long stopped pretending I had any “restraint.” I didn’t. If it purred, pawed, waved, meowed, or even vaguely suggested a whisker… it was coming home with me.
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