Sue is not a morning person. She’s not a noon person. Doesn’t really like the late afternoons much either. She tolerates the evening, and, as I get ready for bed, she is wide awake.

“You go ahead, I’ve got some e-mail to catch up on, some laundry to do, I want to clean the oven, can some tomatoes, order some seeds, hem those slacks I just bought.” It’s been like this for 35 years.

I’m almost used to it.

About three years ago, I went to the pet rescue place to get a replacement cat. I didn’t want a kitten, I wanted a full-grown, housebroken cat. There were hundreds of cats trying to out-cute one another. I’m not a cat expert, I just like low-maintenance pets.

My last cat used to like it when – after dinner parties – I would pick him up like a ventriloquist’s dummy and put words in his mouth.

“Jim, does this fur make me look fat?” “Jim, was I adopted?” “Jim, can I take a personal day off tomorrow?” “Jim, let’s talk about my 401K plan.”

So, feeling good in general about cats, I picked up the first one that rubbed up against my leg and let me pet her.

The pet rescue people didn’t warn me by saying anything as direct as, “You’ve just decided to bring Satan into your home,” or “Sir, think about it, why do you think this beautiful cat doesn’t already have a home?” Or “Don’t do it, mister! It will wreck your marriage, you’ll lose your job, you’ll lose your house!” No. No one was that direct. One guy did cough into his hand and said casually, “Most people don’t like to adopt older cats.” Lights should have flashed, buzzers should have sounded, security doors should have automatically slammed shut to keep this cat from escaping. Instead, I took it home in a cardboard cage they provided for free.

I was so naive. For a few days, we called out names to the cat to see what she would respond to. If someone had owned her before, she must have a name. Betty? No response. Linda? No response. Missy? Wynonna? Imelda? Leona? Moon Unit? Ephigene? Camilla? Mary Jane? Apple? Salt? Pepa? Fergie? Nothing.