There are three cats in my life. For what it's worth, I always thought of myself as a dog person. There was always a dog associated with a particular phase in my life. Cats were there too but they kind of drifted in and out and existed in the background.
Cat Number 1 is an overweight and high maintenance calico named BeeBee. She was a barn kitten, born to a feral momma cat who set up house in a barn on my parents' property. At the tender age of 4 weeks, she contracted a particularly nasty respiratory infection that should have killed her. My daughter discovered the tiny, dying creature and my parents sprang into action, taking the kitten to our vet. I think Beebee lived at the clinic for about two weeks, enduring IVs and electrolyte treatments. The bill was astronomical.
Once you spend money on a wild cat, it becomes a domesticated cat. The question was what to do with this kitten once she recovered. Since my parents already had a crotchety older cat who would not have tolerated an annoying young thing and the thought of adopting the kitten out was unacceptable, I grudgingly accepted BeeBee into the household.
BeeBee, or Miss B, is a pretty good cat as cats go. She begs for food and tears up the rugs sometimes. She also attempts to prevent people from leaving the house by lying on their possessions. Here she is trying to keep me from leaving by staging a sitdown on my gym bag.