We used to have a cat, but we gave it away.  We had a good reason.  It turned out after we got it, that it was A Cat.  As a result, we have been cat-less.

Recently, however, our cat-less life came to a screeching halt.  It began with a phone call from my wife –

“There’s a cat on the porch.  It’s meowing really loud, and it won’t leave.  Come home right now!” The tone of her voice imbued the mild concern of, say, a DEFCON 1 emergency.

By the time I got home, the cat had breached the front door and was sitting in the foyer meowing as if he were Lassie trying to alert us that Timmy had fallen down the well (again).

I want to say ahead of time that I’m not proud of what I did next.  But I did it out of loyalty to my wonderful wife.  So let’s be clear, I am embarrassed to admit what I am about to tell you, but I would do it again if my wife asked (ordered).

My wife developed the theory that the cat might live in a Victorian home two blocks away.  Why, you ask?  Because we live in a Victorian, and she surmised that the cat might have confused the two houses.  It was already 10 o’clock at night, and my initial inclination was to launch headlong into a lecture about how I doubted that this cat was versed in Western European architecture.  Instead, I grabbed my coat.

Off we marched down the street, the cat dutifully following us toward the Victorian.  When we arrived, the cat showed about has much interest in the place as an aardvark being shown a violin.  I even marched up the walkway (like an idiot) trying to interest the cat in following me, but he remained on the sidewalk with a feline expression of sour disinterest.

After it was obvious the cat had no interest in this house, my wife suggested we walk around the neighborhood to see if the cat recognized any of the houses.

Eight butt-cheek freezing blocks later, we arrived back at our house.  The cat was still following us.  When we got to our walkway, he couldn’t race up the walkway fast enough.

We resigned ourselves to the cat spending the night.

The next morning, I made my next critical error.  We didn’t have any cat food, so I looked around the pantry.  I spotted a can of tuna.  As my good friend, who for the purposes of this column I will refer to as “John,” because his name is John Kim, later explained to me, ‘Jack, what were you thinking?  No cat moves from a tuna house, back to a non-tuna house!’

We took the cat to the vet down the street to see if he had an identification chip under his skin.  We learned three things: 1. He didn’t have a chip; 2. He had never been neutered; and, 3. While he didn’t have fleas (that they could find at the time), he did have “flea dandruff.”  (This was new to me, I didn’t think fleas had dandruff.)

Our wonderful local animal shelter helped us look for his owner.  But, alas, no one came forward.

Finally, my daughter’s boyfriend summed it up: “Somebody dumped the cat.”

My wife snapped into action.  Amazon boxes began filling our house.  UPS trucks began getting into UPS truck traffic jams in our driveway.

Here’s a taste –

A ceremonial “scratching post” to remind Rocky (his new name) to scratch our custom upholstered living room chairs.

An automated litter box built to handle a herd (three) of cats.

Enough cat toys to start a cat-themed amusement park.

“Gourmet” cat food.  (The cat’s eating better than I am.)

And, of course, a bed to perch on his favorite end of the family room couch.

In short, here is our situation –

The bad news is, we are no longer cat-less.

The good news is, (so far), the cat has allowed us to stay in his home.

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