You’re going to be a father again!

She didn’t shout these words. Women don’t do this when announcing an addition to the family. They do things like knit booties. They leave subtle hints.

In my case, it was a can of Pounce on the kitchen table, but I am getting ahead of myself. Let me tell the whole story.

Last year we lost our cat, Toby. He was a great friend, but cats are also a responsibility and an expense. While not pleased about his death, I was happy to be free of the extra work.

My wife, Marie, had another opinion. She had had many cats over the years and longed for feline companionship. It didn’t matter that we have two dogs. Having a cat is different.

However, it takes two to make a marriage. Summoning all of my masculine authority, I made it very clear that under no circumstances was she even to think of getting another cat.

Oh, she tried. I was invited into McPhail’s to view various kittens on numerous occasions. I was rock solid. I didn’t flinch. We left the store catless.

Next came the vet clinic. I got updates on stray cats that needed new homes. My little Mother Teresa of the cat world visited them and told me how we would be a positive influence in their lives. I would assure her that her saintly intentions were mixed with my fiendish, selfish desire not to add any more pets to our household.

Marie was determined. There was the social pressure. Ann at church asked me why I didn’t want a cat. Marie expressed her desire to many friends, who sometimes leered at me for not giving in to her desires. I had no trouble being portrayed as the cruel husband, as long as we didn’t take in a stray.

Then it happened! The perfect occasion and the perfect excuse, mixed with the perfect timing.

Marie went to the Mitchell Golf Club with Bonnie for a practice round for a tournament she entered. People often drop off their unwanted cats, I’m told, at golf courses. This kitten wandered up to Marie and rubbed against her. As she put it, “He chose me. There were eight other women and he walked right up to me. I would have never have chosen a cat like him.” Right! I wasn’t falling for that line.

He chose her enough for her to call the course the next day, go pick him up and hide him in our basement, leaving the Pounce on the table to break the news to me gently.

She’s crafty, though. We went golfing with friends after work. I had planned to go directly to the course, but had forgotten my clubs. Marie didn’t complain when I asked her to bring them in her car. She seemed happy about the idea. Strange.

After an enjoyable golf game and dinner with our friends, we came home. I saw the Pounce. My first words were, “Where is he?” I announced in a firm voice that he would be out of the house at the earliest possible opportunity. I was angry. How dare she go against my wishes? How important was my opinion in this relationship? I debated even sleeping on the couch. I was upset.

Then I made the fatal mistake. I crept into the basement to see what the fuss was all about. The huge, friendly eyes of a scrawny cat greeted me. It was obvious that he needed care. I picked him up to see how light he was. He had me at purr.

The next day I mentioned about the cat going back, but like a Popsicle melting on a hot summer day, my intentions disappeared. By evening I announced that we were keeping the cat, as if it had been my idea all along.

The final seal of approval was giving him a name. Marie purposely came up with some terrible ones. She’s sly. By giving me naming rights, the cat was sure to stay.

I struggled to find a name. Then it dawned on me that he was found on the Mitchell Golf Course. His name would be Caddie.

My only victory in all this? She is on poop patrol. Since he is her Caddie, I’m not going to clean the sand traps.