There was a cat at the end of the street. He was hungry and alone. He slept under an unfinished cement bench of sorts. I took a few minutes, every single day, to play and feed him. Every time he saw me, he would jump and waddle up to me. A broken paw healed badly, for sure, didn’t stop him from being lively and playful. Every day I would say hi, play a bit and then say bye. Every day he would do the playful routine and at the end go back to his place under the bench. One day, he walked after me. I tried to convince him not to, with quite a feeble amount of determination, I must admit. So he ended up following me up to my doorstep. I was not that sure I needed a cat. I had never thought of having a cat. But that was not the cat’s idea at all. He waddled inside, sat on my couch and looked at me as if saying “yep, this is going to be my place from now on whether you like it or not”. I did. And now I am not sure who nurtures who these days.