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?

Ignore the happy face it presents: Coercive state points a gun at you
Redemption of ’Bama’s Jalen Hurts illustrates what sports teach us
This mortal life swings between lonely misery and loving paradise
Not voting makes a statement: ‘You don’t have my moral consent’
‘Tolerant’ left seethes with hate if you don’t accept ‘gender theory’
Advocating peace requires more than hating those who start wars
Town’s new fine for public profanity points to problem of ‘public’ spaces
Dark times on Earth trigger my emotions about Artemis launch