Charlie showed up at my house one summer day – a cat who had, figuratively and literally, been around the block a few times. He was skinny and scarred and had a torn ear, which gave him a certain dangerous charm. His fur was the color of Grand Marnier and his eyes an absinthe green.

Charlie hung around my front porch awaiting an invitation to come inside. That wasn’t going to happen. I already had a poodle, a mother with dementia, and I had recently said good-bye to a very sweet and sick cat who’d required twice-daily insulin shots. There was no way I could take on responsibility for another living creature.

That didn’t stop me from sitting on the steps with him, feeding him, and having conversations.

Winter came. An ice storm was predicted. I had no choice. I grabbed Charlie and carried his kicking and spitting self inside. The little devil BIT me!

I threw him in the guest room and locked the door.

“Mama, I have to go out for awhile. I put a stray cat in the guest room for just tonight because of the weather. Don’t open the door – I don’t want you to get scratched or bitten.”

Came home a few hours later to find my mom in her rocking chair, with Charlie on her lap. Both of them looked extremely pleased with themselves.

“Mama, I told you not to open the door!”

“I know, honey. But I kept hearing a cat. I didn’t recognize him, but knew he must be our cat. Because we’ve ALWAYS had a cat.”

Charlie turned into the babiest baby who loved yellow toys and sitting on laps. He had two happy indoor years before he died (he was a very old cat).

In Philadelphia, there is a fantastic vegan restaurant called Charlie Was A Sinner. They don’t say who Charlie was, or what his sins were. But the name always makes me smile and think of my Charlie in his swashbuckling scoundrel days.

It’s so nice they named their restaurant after my cat.