When I adopted my two perfect, mischievous cats, my live-in boyfriend was adamant that they were mine and mine alone. He would never have chosen to get a cat on his own, he said, and so his role would be that of a spectator. He held true to that promise, merely observing the kitties as they ate, played, and curled up together in the cat tree. He viewed them greeting him as he came home from work, and as they snuggled up next to him when he was sad in bed. He began asking me to bring a cat onto the couch with us—for observational purposes only, of course. Now, a year and a half later, he has dropped the façade. He puts treats on his chest for the cats to collect, and gazes lovingly at them for minutes at a time when he thinks I’m not looking. “What have you done to me?” he’ll ask, after he finishes singing them a made-up cat song. “What have you turned me into?”
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