Simon Marsden

I visited Nate today, and Smokey was really happy to see me. I love that cat. My family got her when I was 9 years old (and for those who haven't been keeping track of my life, my mom had to give her up last month because my aunt and uncle, who are staying at her house, are allergic to cats.)

My family had a summer home in Wood Haven -- about 100 miles west of Chicago -- in the early-mid 90s. One day in 1995, our neighbors found a run-over female cat on the road and a litter of hungry and timid kittens nearby. The neighbors took them in and called people over to adopt them. My parents went and chose the runt of the litter -- Smokey.

Years later, after my parents got divorced and when my dad was in the midst of selling the summer home, my siblings and I went there for the last time ever. We saw the neighbors, and they asked about Smokey. I told them she was doing great, and the wife smiled.

"All the other cats died right after we gave them away," she said. "It was really bizarre. Apparently they all had some kind of stomach infection. We think they ate something bad before we found them."

"That's weird," I told her. "Smokey's really healthy. She's never been sick."

"She was the runt of the litter. The other cats wouldn't let her eat anything, so basically her life was spared."

What a strange twist of fate! Here she is, 13 years later and still kicking. And, yes, she's Nate's cat. Nobody's cat but Nate's. Happy, Nate?