Does anyone really need a cat? Dogs, ever the predictable choice, tend to provide utility and generally seek to please. Lucy, our 13 year old mutt, has assisted with hundreds of vacuum-worthy spills while keeping us intruder free for the duration. She’s also never met a nature show she couldn’t ruin.

But back to cats. We already have one. His given name is Tiny Peter and he’s top notch. Practically every new visitor to Chapman HQ says something to the tune of “Hey, what’s wrong with your cat?” I’ve had a long think on the subject and Peter either truly thinks he is a dog or is actually a reincarnated five-year-old with a heart of gold. We’re currently shopping around for statue makers so we can capture his likeness in its prime.

Recently, however, Peter has been super bored. He has spent his entire life with another cat around, and since Leo has moved on to kitty heaven, Peter is flying solo. He tried to play with Lucy, but she’s basically hated every lifeform that has diluted her portion of our love. It’s been one demotion after the next in her eyes, and Peter was simply another middle manager who had been swiftly promoted through the ranks. With tons of energy to burn and not much going on, Peter’s favorite activity had become gnawing on my fingers, especially if they happened to be in motion on a keyboard.

A good friend of ours was fostering cats and shared that there was a kitten fitting our profile (orange + male) being taken in. The poor guy was found alone at a shady apartment complex in town. I saw the profile picture and was immediately sold. But when I called the next day to inquire, I was told that many were already interested. They must have seen what I did - all that voluptuous fluff.

But as a little time passed and the adoption window opened, I was notified that others had not been a “match.” That’s definitely not a red flag, right? Fondue (as his adoption papers called him) was open to meet us. We promptly made ourselves available and thought a lot about melty cheese.

Allison was out of town, so the girls and I loaded up the minivan on a Saturday morning for our official visit. The entire backseat was read the riot act since we were being evaluated as a candidate just as much as the cat was. Time to turn up that classic Chapman charm.

Let’s admit it was not a great sign when the hosts dropped immediately to the living room floor. Fondue required detachment from the underside of a couch. Our crew was cautiously able to pet him for a smidge. Indeed he was the softest thing imaginable. In my mind, the decision matrix was on full tilt with not much of a data set to go off of. Still young, impressionable, with a good role model chilling back at our house - I figured the odds of success were in our favor.

I’m not one to linger at a stranger’s house (or anyone’s for that matter), so I made a seat-of-my-pants call to adopt Fondue on the spot after we were asked for our thoughts. I’ve driven away from an adoption opportunity with Maggie before, and that’s how we ended up with the aforementioned Leo. The legally-binding paperwork was already out on the counter.

After a quick stop at adoption headquarters for a last round of shots, the three of us and our new furry friend headed to the house. I called Allison with the news. Being married as long as we have, it’s the tone that you really pick up on. Through the excited words of congratulations, I detected a hint of doubt that maybe we hadn’t done our due diligence. She knows me so well (and vividly remembers my impulse buy of a new piano last year).

Upon release, Fondue McFluffins Chapman promptly bolted for the first item he could hide under. Dude was terrified. We went through a few rounds of extrication, attempted love, and scratches before we admittedly lost track of his whereabouts. Eventually he was located up inside the frame of a chair. I couldn’t help but be a bit impressed.

The very next day he scuttled to a more permanent location - this time, under a bathroom vanity who's opening was barely larger than he. This was a pickle. Since I have super thick man arms, you’ve probably already come to the realization that I was unable to reach Fondue at this point. We had ourselves an old-fashioned standoff. After a long day of fretting, it had become (in my paranoid imagination) legitimately possible for Fondue to no longer fit back through that hole in a few days.

Mercifully, the dual contributions of teamwork and good smelling cat treats finally paid off. I hurriedly taped the vanity with every roll of tape on hand. When Allison arrived home, my open wounds were not signs of an optimistic start. Still, we kept with it. Our house guests agreed he indeed looked like a pleasant thing to hold and we had them sign a waiver prior to the scratches. Then it got a little worse.

Young “Frank,” as we were now calling him, started pooping regularly on Lucy’s beds. Now, we totally expected to promote this little guy quickly, but (what seemed like) premeditated hate pooping was violating several notable HR policies. This was a double-whammy, as Frank had to be given a special wet food that was already an unsettling experience on the way in.

On the upside, all the delicious meal times started to prove my worth in young Frank’s paranoid little eyes. I was permitted to pet him in passing. He farted prolifically, but that couldn’t mask the sweet smell of progress.

The soiled dog beds began to pile up, however, and overall improvement stalled. More scratches accumulated. This guy was obviously miserable and had a stomach that churned incessantly. The rest of the family never saw him, and hardly believed my tales of victory. It was not going well.

Then I had a slight epiphany. Frank was basically still a feral cat. What if he was binge eating his face off, thinking each meal was his last? I had left the kitty buffet wide open and he was taking advantage. I know I’m a real peach when I have the tummy troubles, and maybe portion control would make a difference. The change was almost immediate.

In a few days, young Frank walked up to me and meowed (which feels more like he’s yelling at you). I picked him up, feeling optimistic. Y’all. You can’t imagine how good it actually feels to embrace such a wonderful surface. Like heaven misplaced a pillow.

After steadily working towards true friendship for a few weeks, Frank bestowed upon me the privilege to carry him clear across the house for feeding time. He made regular appearances in front of the whole family. Lucy grunted her displeasure as we all told Frank how good he looked.

And then one fateful night…

Allison and I have become quite clear in our roles as our life together has gained efficiency. Sanitation, mess hall, critter control, light switcher-offer (we’ll group them together as “Facilities Management”) are all under my jurisdiction. Allison is President of Feelings and social chair while carrying the company’s key objective of “acting like respectable humans.” When she is out of town for a stretch, we devolve into pizza-crazed hermits - dressed in mismatched clothing and binging on Battle Bots.

Considering this delegation of responsibilities, note that on this particular evening, I was downstairs ensuring all our lights were off and properly sorting the recycling. Out of the serene quiet comes the piercing screams of my girls from above. “Daddy, there’s a bug!!!”

I always spring to immediate action in these scenarios because I love them so much. When I arrived on the scene, however, the critter had already been dispatched. With a paw placed proudly atop the offending roach, Frank looked dignified and in his element. We had ourselves a new Head of Security. Lucy was beside herself.