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?

FRIDAY FUNNIES
As a photographer, be prepared to doubt your talent every single day
Letting go of dead dreams can lead to path you need to follow
Head and heart don’t agree about love, including Valentine’s Day
Anarchist vs. minarchist debate misses the shift to post-statist world
When strangers tell us things we want to hear, we want to believe
At times, we have to just wait for the day when we’ll see the fruit
Loving a depressed person means holding tightly on trips through hell
I can’t help wanting to replay life with emotionally healthy parents