I didn’t choose the cat life. The cat life chose me. Specifically, a fluffy Siberian Forest was wandering down Colfax Avenue in Denver like some kind of mystical furball hitchhiker.

Let me back up.

Six months earlier, I’d climbed off my deathbed (yes, the actual kind with the dramatic lighting and everything), and apparently, the universe thought, “What this guy needs now is a four-legged enigma with a regal tail and zero regard for human schedules.”

A friend rescued the cat that was foraging at the restaurant where she worked. They brought her over and she’s been judging my life choices ever since the June 2014 Full Moon from the window sills and atop the fridge and step ladders.

Now don’t get me wrong. I grew up in a dog household. Waggy tails, bigger personalities, endless games of fetch, and smells that defy science. I love dogs. I respect dogs. But as an adult? I like naps, autonomy, and furniture that isn’t chewed beyond recognition.

Cats are basically introverted roommates who pay rent in headbutts and purrs. Dogs, bless their wiggly hearts, are needy toddlers with a bark button.

They want to be in your lap, your car, your soul. Cats? Moon will look at me and say, “You may approach me… but only if you’ve recently opened a can.”

Moon is primarily an indoor cat and doesn’t require daily walks. She doesn’t whine at the door. She doesn’t bark at Amazon deliveries. She simply is. Like a Buddha with whiskers and a mysterious past.

And after coming back from the brink of death, I wasn’t ready for a high-maintenance commitment. I needed soft purring. She’s not a lap cat, bit likes occasional attention. She’s low-drama, high-fluff, and suspicious of everyone but me (most days).

So yes, I’m a cat person. Because Moon wandered in like a cosmic gift on Colfax Avenue, dogs are wonderful, but cats are survival partners with fur.