I always thought of myself as a dog person. I'd grown up with dogs--cattle dogs, hunting beagles. What cats we had on the farm were barn cats, semi-feral, living on mice and fresh cow's milk, as often as not scratching the hand that fed them.
That changed when we got married. Denise came with a cat, a New England Polydactyl called Polly, skittish and suspicious of men. Except, as it turned out, of the one who did most of the cooking, and could be coaxed into dropping meat scraps on the kitchen floor.
We've probably had well over a dozen more cats in the years since, almost all strays that showed up on our doorstep (and, in one memorable instance, strolled between my legs into the studio and decided to stay). We currently have two, a brother and sister, orange tiger and calico; there's also a brown tiger living under the pottery shed that I expect we'll tame some day. (We've started leaving out crunchies in a bowl for her, and talking calmly in her general direction if we happen to be outdoors at the same time.)
So it's no surprise how often cats show up on my pottery. Mugs, soup and toddler bowls, stews. Pie plates and dinner plates, servers and pastas. Cat food dishes (of course) and yarn bowls (well, duh!).
I guess I may be a cat person after all.