Despite my allergies, my not needing another poop-maker in my house, and my general indifference toward pets, we got a cat. I guess I agreed to a cat because they are less work than dogs (muddy paws, house training, barking, regular walks, etc.) and because I thought I was depriving my kids of some basic rite of childhood (they also have never had Twinkies, but it's not like kids are walking around our street with Twinkies on leashes). And they are really enchanted with the cat. Unlike finding Phoebe in her crib covered in vomit after I had ignored her cries at 3am, getting the cat was a high point in parenting.
So, his name is Jack. Or Bare-Ass Jack (he was bitten by a spider and the vet had to shave his butt to look at the bite). Or Captain Jack. Or, when he keeps us up all night wanting to play, Jack-Ass.
Anyway, he's cute and friendly, and cuddly, and Nathan takes care of the litter box and the nail trimming, so I guess I'm okay with Jack. But I'm still not a cat person.