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?

I want to help out of pure love, but human motives are messy
How does a father overcome his own issues to raise a new baby?
‘Metaverse’ future seems easy, but humans thrive on challenge
Does mainstream schooling model bring out the worst in teen-agers?
There are times we need to quit; what do you need to quit today?
Fly your freak flag: You’re not going to ruin your kids with ‘crazy’ genes
Miss. church turns back clock by refusing to marry black couple
When you can’t call one you love, silent phone just taunts your need