Cats With Hands

It was the one thing I'd never dreamed we'd become.

My husband, Hap, and I had always thought we hated cats. We just didn't like them. Never owned one, never fed strays, avoided petting them. We weren't cat people.

Then one rainy spring day, a patchwork-colored cat came around. I was about to shoo her away, but she looked so miserable I felt sorry for her. The least I could do was leave her some food. She kept coming back for more, and I got to petting her. Patches, I called her.

It wasn't long before another cat showed up, gray with a white chest. I named her Fluffy. Soon she had a black kitten, Midnight. Then two lovely white angoras came around, Pete and Repeat.

"What are we running, a cat sanctuary?" Hap grumbled. But I couldn't turn them away. I liked caring for them. I started to worry about what would happen to them in cold weather and asked Hap what we should do. He didn't say much.

Then on a cool fall day, driving home from a meeting at church, I was still wondering what to do about my cats in the cold winter. My cats! I pulled into the driveway, and saw the most amazing sight.

There sitting on our porch was the neatest cathouse you could ever find! Hap had built it, with beige carpet covering the floor, a little porch on the front and wooden shingles on the roof.

"It's perfect," I said to Hap. "But, I didn't think you liked the cats."

"I guess they've grown on me," he said sheepishly.

"I guess they've grown on us both," I said, smiling.