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?

When does healthy love become nothing but unhealthy obsession?
It’s best to focus on future, ’cause dead past is a ‘bridge to nowhere’
‘Run away with me?’ I couldn’t accept her offer, but I wanted to
Sorry, Hillary: Research shows it doesn’t take a village to raise a kid
No ebooks for me: Reading is about more than simply absorbing data
Without community, we no longer know each other, in life or death
Only through death of empires can something new take their places
Let’s quit trying to force others to choose our shopping preferences
If foreigner had killed 16 Americans, we wouldn’t be looking for excuses