I didn’t want to live with a cat. I certainly didn’t want to live with a cat in my house. I was certain that I didn’t like cats. I was wrong.
Years ago, my ex-wife wanted a cat. She had grown up with felines and had great memories of them. I had grown up with a father who would sooner spontaneously combust than have an animal inside his perfect house, so I knew very, very little of cats or dogs from experience. At best, I was indifferent. But Melissa wanted a cat, so I decided to find one for her.
It was my sister, Mary, who found a stray kitten in Mountain Brook, which is an upscale Birmingham suburb very close to the local zoo. I had mentioned to her that I was looking for a cat, so she called me to come take a look when Melissa wasn’t around — so it would be a surprise for her. I went to Mary’s apartment to see this tiny furball who seemed more like a starving street urchin than the healthy kittens I’d seen in cat food commercials.
I got got down on the floor with him. He came over to me and rubbed against my face — gingerly at first, but then with abandon. I smiled and suddenly felt warmer inside. I didn’t want a cat, but something inside me did. What was I getting into?

How could we take responsibility but avoid self-destructive shame?
Money can’t buy happiness, but poverty can make you miserable
Trust and spontaneous order don’t require heavy hand of the state
FDA’s war on margarine is really an attack on your freedom of choice
Upcoming Romney-Obama contest says this is what Americans want
To heal from narcissistic abuse, you have to stop hurting yourself
OK, morons, we’ll finally admit it: We really are smarter than you
When Demopublicans and Republicrats clash, you lose