Once I was talking with Brenda, a coworker, about pets. She said she had a cat. Instantly, I started asking questions. What’s its name? Is it male or female? How old is it? Where did you get it? What does it look like? Has it bonded with anyone in the family? What’s its personality like?

“It’s a cat,” she replied. “It doesn’t have a personality.”

“What do you mean, it has no personality? Every cat has a personality,” I said.

“All it does is lay in my shoes.”

“That’s a personality if I ever heard of one,” I replied. “It likes you and wants to be close to you. Your scent makes it feel secure. It’s chosen you as its human. If you don’t pay attention to it, it will get lonely and turn to your shoes for comfort. You should pet it and cuddle it and love it.”

She scoffed at me.

But all cats have personalities, even if they’re peculiar.

We once had a kitten who caused a commotion. We heard a bump-bump-bump coming from the hallway but had no idea what it could be. Maggie solved the mystery when she came into the living room, dragging one of Dan’s hiking boots (larger than she was) by its long, red lace. Now there was a cat with a shoe fetish! (She also used to hide bits of kibble in the toes of his shoes. She was a rescue and hadn’t known where her next meal was coming from, so she’d stash some food just in case. I’m just glad we didn’t feed her wet food. But I digress.)

Maggie bonded with Dan. When she was around him, she behaved like a Gallic strumpet, writhing and meowing and presenting her backside. To her, I was chopped liver (or something less edible). I always said if Maggie and Dan were the same species, I wouldn’t have had a chance with him.

Another cat we had, Matches, also bonded with Dan. Matches would play catch with him. Dan would throw a crumpled-up piece of paper, and Matches would catch it between his paws and bring it back to Dan. When he tired of the game, he would drop the “ball” instead of returning it. (He also bit Dan’s ankle whenever he stepped out of the shower. As a sign of affection, it wasn’t as endearing as playing catch. But I digress again.)

Our other cats had personalities, too. Jasper came running up onto the bed most evenings, meowing urgently. “What is it?” we’d ask. “Has Timmy fallen down the well? And did Grandpa fall in after him? And did a school bus full of nuns fall after them both? And catch on fire?” He never told us, but he didn’t stop meowing either until we tugged his tail, which he loved.

We’ve had many cats over the years, and all of them had personalities. Louise liked to be held in my arms like a baby. Chelsea would get upset if Dan and I quarreled. Bijou slept across my throat the first night I brought her home.

However strange they (or we) sometimes acted, they socialized with us, bonded with us, and set up housekeeping in our hearts. Personalities? They had personality-plus.

(You may now applaud because I got all the way through this without giving in to the temptation to say “purr-sonality.” Until now.)