On or about March 1, 1969, my two sons, Willy and Matt, brought home a clean, beautiful newborn Siamese kitten, which they called "Pancho."
I don't really like cats, but, as it is with sons and fathers, I was talked into keeping it. "Please Daddy!" "We'll take care of him, Daddy!" Of course, they didn't. Like most parents, my wife, Ruth, and I fed Pancho, washed him, de-fleaed him, took him to the vet, and when our kids went off to college, Pancho became our total responsibility.
For 16 years I lived with Pancho, fed him, spent a fortune keeping him healthy, and vented my resentment on him. I complained when we spent money patching up the wounds of his amorous adventures, suffered when he finally had to be "fixed," and bitched loudly when his old age forced us to spend hundreds of dollars on keeping him alive.
Through it all, however, Pancho was sweet, noble, and courageous. He meowed, woke me up when I wasn't ready, and was a general pain, but maybe that was all part of my moods, and my avowed dislike of cats, and the fact that his hours and mine invariably failed to coincide.