My friend Lori just got her first cat from a local shelter. She was told by the shelter staff that Spooky might spend a few days hiding under furniture until she felt comfortable with her new digs, but apparently Spooky didn't get the memo. Upon arrival, she quickly sniffed everything in sight then rubbed against Lori's leg and demanded to be petted.

I felt a twinge of jealousy when Lori told me this story because that's the kind of affection I dream of getting from our cat, Rhianna. Instead, it's me, me, me-ow. All day long.

Like Lori, Nan and I got Rhianna from a shelter. She was all sweetness and light then, snuggling under my arm and practically begging to be taken home. It wasn't until later that we realized we had been bamboozled, but by then it was too late -- the check had been cashed, so we were stuck with her.

I like cats for a variety of reasons, but mostly because they're low maintenance. Unlike dogs, you don't have to walk them, wash them or follow them around with a plastic bag picking up their poop. Toss some food in a cat's bowl, give its litter box a quick scoop in the morning and you're good for the day. Nice and easy, just the way I like it.

And in return for three squares and a comfy place to nap, most cats will give you a little loving. They'll fall asleep in your lap, or nuzzle you and purr to show their appreciation. Not Rhianna, though. She's as selfish as they come, constantly demanding to be scratched and yelling loudly when we stop. Unfortunately, she's just too darned cute to sell to gypsies, so we put up with it.

I've had a lot of pets in my life, including fish, mice, hamsters, guinea pigs, turtles and anoles, which I raised for a while after winning a terrarium in a raffle as a kid. But throughout it all, my family has also had cats. All were pretty fine pets, with the exception of Blackie. For some reason, Blackie reveled in terrorizing me. In fact, it didn't take long until her mere presence in the room stuck terror in my grade school-aged heart. But I couldn't stay mad at her. Blackie and I grew up together, and she had some health problems later in life that required a gentle touch on my part. We settled our differences, made amends, and I'm not ashamed to say I cried the day she died.

But of all the cats I've ever owned, my favorite was Sabrina, a six-toed, amazingly soft, American shorthair that we acquired from my parents when they moved into a North Raleigh retirement community that charged an arm and leg for pets.

To say that Sabrina was affectionate would be an understatement. She followed me around like a puppy and spent hours each day on my desk batting at pencils, which made getting work done more than a little tricky.

What really won my heart, however, was Sabrina's nighttime ritual. Every evening, she would jump up on my bed, crawl on my chest and lick me on the nose, then head off to sleep with Nan. She did this every night until we lost her to kidney disease at the age of 16. One of the hardest things I've ever had to do was hold her in my arms while the vet gave her the shot that took her away. I cried when Blackie died, but I sobbed when we lost Sabrina.

I'd love for Rhianna to be more like Sabrina, but I know it isn't going to happen. Rhianna's the queen the house, and unfortunately she knows it. Our job, in her eyes, is to cater to her every whim. And we do. Willingly.

Why? Because a house with a snooty, selfish cat is still better than a house with no cat at all.