I've always gotten along well with cats.  I like dogs, but I don't want one for a pet.  I like a four-legged friend who can act self-contained, doesn't have to go outside to relieve him- or herself.  I've walked dogs, the pets of family and friends.  Most of these experiences have consisted of stopping every ten feet or so while the dog sniffs something jutting from the ground.  The halting nature of the walks prevents my legs from doing what they're born to do: stride long and fast.  I have a friend who has two greyhounds.  They pull her along--under her firm control--at high walking speeds, as if they're harnessed to a sleek buggy. 
     Cats, meanwhile, sleep, eat, keep themselves clean with their rough tongues, climb into litter boxes, bury their crap, and purr when content.
     I know nothing about gerbils, but taking care of an animal that lives among its own shavings, inside its own litter box as it were, doesn't appeal to me.  Maybe that says something about me, maybe it doesn't.
     I like friendly dogs and mellow dogs.  Most of these in my experience have been mongrels. 
     Dogs that bare teeth at me and/or spring at me as I walk past bother me intensely.  I want the dogs' humans to give me ten bucks on the spot to compensate for the jolts to my nervous system.  A few years ago a small but loud chained dog ran at me, the sharp noise entering my upper arms and shooting into my chest, an odd and unpleasant sensation. 
     "You fucker!" I yelled at the little shit.
     A smiling woman opened her screen door and said, "He won't hurt you."
     "He startled me," I shouted, my legs taking me farther away from someone I wanted nothing to do with.
     "He's harmless!" she shouted back.
     I shook my head at her and walked on, hearing her yell, "Fuck you!"
     You see, cats don't do what that little dog did.

                                                                                Vic Neptune