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not the first thing to make me improper, that was for certain.
    “Come on,” Veronica said, “let’s at least have a look. Just looking won’t hurt anything. You never know, maybe you’ll make a connection with a needy kitty.”
    “Veronica, that’s the thing, no cat is needy,” I explained. “Cats don’t actually need us. They just need our things, our homes, litter boxes, food, whatever. In fact, they don’t really even need those things; they’re just icing on the tuna-flavored cakes that the cats feast on as they plan to take over the world.” I was thinking of the mystery cat that pooped in my garden beds. I despised being outside, digging or weeding in the productive plot of earth behind my house, feeling the sun warm my back and my toes curl into the soil as I knelt and then, whammo, finding a cat turd right next to the carrots.
    “Perhaps you haven’t met the right cat,” Veronica said.
    She lived with cats that she believed were the right cats, but I was on to them. I was not fooled by the way they wove their bodies in and out between my feet as I visited their home where they deemed it permissible to let Veronica live. I knew what they were doing as they pushed their fuzzy cheeks along the surfaces of my cowboy boots.
    They wanted me to think that they were welcoming me, but I knew better. They were scenting my ankles so that territorial feral cats might be more likely to attack me on my walk home. When they looked at me through their half-closed, please-think-I’m-dozing-and-not-thinking-about-the-way-the-meat-of-your-thigh-might-taste eyes, I could hear Dr. Evil laughing.
    I had to content myself with the fact that even though they were highly intelligent, they didn’t have opposable thumbs. So taking over the world would be just that much harder for them. A cat would not be my first choice in an adoption.
    “We can walk through, but I don’t think a cat is a good idea for me.” I gave in to the idea of visiting the Humane Society’s cat house, but knew they’d all still be there when I finished my tour.
    We walked, stopping a few times to read the names on their placards. I had to humor Veronica so that she wouldn’t think I didn’t at least contemplate bringing a tiny terrorist into my home, but none of the cats made me feel as if my adopting them were a matter of life and death. Soon enough we were exiting the cat section through a corridor that led to the foyer. I was empty-hearted, which surprised me.
    “Well, we tried,” I said over my shoulder to Veronica, trying not to show any disappointment.
    “Watch it!” Veronica cried. The air whooshed in front of me. I stopped as a huge cage rolled toward me.
    “Oh!” I yelped. An echoing “Oh!” came from the cage.
    “Excuse me, hon!” another voice said, “I almost ran right over you, didn’t I?” The cage was so big and had so many wild, colorful things hanging in it that I couldn’t make out the owner of the voice.
    “Sorry,” I said, “I wasn’t watching where I was going.” The woman parked the cage in front of me and peered around it, grinning at me. She had unruly brown curls and root beer brown eyes. She looked like Sigourney Weaver.
    “Easy to get distracted here,” she said.
    I looked for whatever might be in the cage. Was it a monkey’s house? Did the Humane Society ever get monkeys? I doubted it—weren’t they every little kid’s dream pet? I could remember more than half a dozen of my own grade school friends who confessed to wanting monkeys when we were kids. I never saw the appeal. Granted, a pet monkey would be better than a cat. I toyed with the beads at my neck as I leaned forward to search the cage. Monkeys didn’t talk, so the echoing “Oh!” was likely the work of a big bird. I looked for beautiful, glossy plumage amidst the hanging toys.
    “Where are you, little fella?” I asked quietly.
    “Lilfella,” something responded from the bottom of the cage. Upon seeing the owner of the voice, I