The Catman of Austin:

My husband, Ronald, an army brat, never had a pet. But in 1984, I convinced him to let me adopt a stray kitten. He agreed, under one condition: he got to name her. For the next ten plus years, the cats we adopted were named after his former girlfriends. That first kitten, Tomeka, crawled up on his pillow that first night with us and peed on his head. Don't ask. Tomeka was allowed to have a companion. Denise, and so the naming went until that Christmas Eve’s eve in 1996 when I rescued a sickly orange kitten, the last in the box of Free Kittens. My husband's initial reaction was, "No." Still, I took the little guy to our vet.

She told me that the kitten had been taken from its mother too soon. He was experiencing some intestinal issue and needed a flea bath and treatment. To properly diagnose the little guy would start at $500—to which my husband said: "Hell, no!"

We settled on the flea bath and shots. Then we brought him home, not knowing what would ultimately become of him. I carried him around constantly, fed him with an eye dropper, and kept him close by my side. Because I hardly ever let him down, I was convinced he would not be able to walk properly. Ronald thought I was too attached. When I told him the cat calmed me, he said his name would be "Prozac."

Other than his annual check-ups, Prozac never needed medical attention, and he lived for over 20 years.

By the early 2000s, Ronald had become a full fledged cat guy. Prior to Prozac's death, I was unaware that my husband was seeing another kitten on the side, a little black and white tuxedo cat he named Chicken Jack. He would go over to his friend’s house and feed it pieces of chicken from his fast food sandwich while the cat sat on his shoulder. After a couple of years, Chicken Jack's owner could no longer keep him, and my husband agreed that we would adopt the cat who now went by the name: Jack.

Jack became quite comfortable at our house. His former owner, who I only knew as Jack's Mom would come visit, but before long, he lost interest in her. I got along with him just fine, as did Prozac, but Jack was definitely Ronald’s cat. It was hard on him when we had to make the tough, but necessary decision to put him down in 2016.

I adopted an older Pomeranian, named Paddington Bear, but my husband missed the companionship of a cat, probably because Paddington barked at him every time he came through the front door.

About a year later, in early September 2017, I was at the Petco getting food for Paddington when I decided to check out the cats that Humane Heroes of Texas had consigned to the store. I was immediately drawn to a tabby named Mr. Mittens. The attendant said the cat, a stray found in Houston after Hurricane Harvey was very shy. She agreed to open the door to the enclosure, but said not to expect him to respond to me. That cat stood up, walked over to me, put his paws around my neck, and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

I filled out the adoption papers, paid the adoption fee, and bought a cardboard carrier to put him in for the short ride back to my house. By the time I turned into our driveway, he was out of the carrier sitting by the hatchback ready to make himself at home.

Once inside, he took one look at my dog, and situated himself under our bed in the master bedroom. He remained there until Ronald came home a few hours later. Ronald got down on his hands and knees and looked under the bed. Knowing that Mr. Mittens was an undignified name, he looked the tabby in the eye and said, “Come on out, Simon.”

The newly named cat complied.

Ronald has arranged the living room with various cat beds and scratching posts for his buddy. Simon shows his appreciation with mice and lizards. He has also bonded with Paddington and I catch them sleeping together from time to time, although Simon would deny he has any affection for the pup.

The Humane Society, Humane Heroes, and other local pet adoption agencies will tell you the importance of rescuing an animal. Truth is: the animals rescue us.