“Mom, can I have a cat?”

I’d heard the request for months, and I’d found lots of excuses.

I’m allergic. My eyes itch and swell in protest. A cat would have to be outside.

We live close to a road. We’re not getting a cat just to have a funeral for it.

We have a dog inside the house, a temperamental shih-tzu named Coco, around whom our entire world revolves. 

Sweet Husband will spend more time selecting Coco’s food than shopping for our own. He contemplates the flavor blends, feeling through the bag to make sure the chunks are small enough. Absolutely no mix of kibble of various shapes and colors. She picks through and eats only her favorite. 

He reflects upon her digestive tendencies.

“Did this brand give her the runs?”

“No,” I say. Honestly, I can’t remember. I’m just ready to get to the cheese section.

He frowns and continues the search for another 22 minutes.

In sum, bringing a cat into the fray would upset the natural order of our world, causing the earth to shift on its axis, thereby leading to the apocalypse.

It was impossible.

“Mom, we’ve got a cat. Can we bring it home?”

Blame it on young love and the proximity of Valentine’s Day. Youngest Daughter’s boyfriend had absconded with a cat from a random yard.

“Mom, it didn’t have a collar on. He went to the door to ask if it belonged to the owners. A lady said it did, but she also said he could have it.

“So, Mom, can I have a cat?”

“Your boyfriend can have a cat.”

But somehow, Youngest Daughter, Valiant Boyfriend, and other assorted individuals ended up in our driveway coaxing the cat from underneath vehicles as she ran from one to another, seeking shelter in their shade. 

In fact, she is one with the darkness, for her long, jet black fur makes her appear more shadow than living creature. 

The two features that distinguish her from inky midnight are a pair of vivid, amber-colored eyes, set in an inquisitive face that is itself surrounded by a halo of twilight fluff.

I cannot decide which is her best feature: her glowing eyes, or her regal tail, which she swishes frequently for attention. Really. She’s not perturbed, and there are no signs of distress. She looks good, and she knows it.

She is a proud and confident cat.

I relent. She lives in Youngest Daughter’s bedroom for the first week. She begins to explore the second week.

She goes into heat the third. Maybe that’s why her owners gave her up so easily. 

She’s been in three heat cycles since we got her. Her vet appointment can’t come soon enough.

She waits by the outside doors to try to escape. Oh, how we would love for her to go outside and conquer new domains.

But there’s the road. We are too attached now to bear the thought.

Her name used to be Snowflake.

Now she is Zelda.

Could I have said no? Did I ever really say yes?

“Do you want me to put the cat up?” asks Youngest Daughter, who has a date tonight with Valiant Boyfriend but who has also assumed total responsibility for her long-desired pet.

“Nah,” I smirk, shaking my head.

Zelda sits on the windowsill and regards us. If she were human, she would also be wryly smiling. She turns her gaze to the outside world. One day, maybe her territory can be enlarged, but for now, she stalks mice in the shop when her need to hunt becomes too much.

She has proven herself worthy in such a short time: in hunting, in companionship, in playing with Coco, in waking us up when the alarm doesn’t go off, in staying close to us when she does go outside, in using her litter box, in becoming part of our family.

And my allergies?

One evening, after the first week of our time with Zelda, I took the ultimate test. After petting her good night, I took out my contacts with cat dander-covered fingers without washing my hands.

Sorry, Dr. Optometrist. There was no other way.

No reaction. Nothing.

That has never happened to me before.

I guess the world really has shifted.