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For months, I pretended the feral cats in my house were just tenants passing through. Yes, I realize how ridiculous that sounds, but allow me to explain before you judge me too harshly. It started several months ago when a pregnant stray showed up looking all soft-eyed and pitiful, like she had personally rehearsed the exact expression required to manipulate a grown man with questionable boundaries.

Naturally, I tried explaining the situation like a man building a legal defense. There were details to consider. Technicalities. Fine print. The kind of loopholes a desperate man clings to once he realizes he’s losing an argument before it even begins.

My lady listened patiently, which should’ve been my first warning sign.

Then she asked the question.

“Do you feed them?”

“Yes.”

“Then they are your cats.”

I started to protest because there were clearly important factors she wasn’t considering. They technically lived outside at first. They came and went as they pleased. There was no signed agreement. No formal discussion had taken place between me and the cats concerning ownership rights and residency expectations.

Her eyebrow rose slowly, carrying the full weight of generations of women exhausted by men saying foolish things with absolute confidence.

I relented and went to buy more kibble.

They really love the salmon and rice stuff.

And maybe that’s how it happens. Maybe ownership has less to do with paperwork and more to do with who waits for you at feeding time. Somewhere along the line, I stopped buying cat food for strays and started budgeting for dependents.

Funny how something can choose you long before you admit you’ve chosen it back.