One night in early March, my son and his dad were in the parking lot of the Tom Forsythe Memorial Arena in Burns Lake, preparing to head home after a late hockey practice. Since Aaron’s dad helped coach the Midget team, they were the last to leave the building that night.

“There’s that cat again,” his dad said. He’d seen him earlier in the week while playing recreational hockey. It wasn’t until Aaron looked down that he saw a scruffy cat near his feet. It was snowing hard and a chill wind blew the flakes around, so the white cat was nearly invisible against the snowy backdrop.

As the two stowed the hockey sticks in the front of the car, the cat perched on top of the hockey bag. Even when Aaron hoisted the bag into the trunk, the cat didn’t move. He just dug his claws into the heavy, cotton fabric.

Finally, Aaron had to lift him off the bag. The cat, although his coat was dirty and matted, was very friendly, unlike a typical stray. He twined around Aaron’s ankles, purring loudly. He was so friendly, in fact, that when Aaron climbed into the car, the cat jumped into the warm vehicle with him. Aaron picked him up and set him outside only to have the cat jump into the car again before he’d had the chance to shut the door. 

Twice more, Aaron tried to leave the cat behind but the cat kept jumping into the car. Finally, they let him stay. “I didn’t try to shut the door too fast,” Aaron later admitted to me. He and his dad called me from the arena parking lot.

“There’s a stray cat in the car with us. He doesn’t want to get out. Should we just bring him home?” What could I say? It was a cold winter night, I like cats and this poor guy sounded like he needed a home. I said yes.