The easy breeze through the small opening of the screen in the window clattered the long, vertical blinds of my parents' living room. Many cats before Whitefoot had long since torn the screen to make the perfect entrance into the house from the front yard. Yet as he poked his orange face through the screen it seemed to belong to only him. The stray cats my dad has been collecting from around the neighborhood lazed behind him in the flowerbed, where my mother's beautiful flowers towered over them, offering shade from the hot, Northern Arizona sunshine. Whitefoot rubbed his orange body against the window frame, drifting casually into the living room. My dad sat in his usual blue chair. His novel, a trashy detective novel, was open on his lap. His head leaned back in the chair as he dozed. Whitefoot meandered toward him, casually stopping at the fish tank to check on his nemesis, Spot. Satisfied that he could not catch him today, he stepped gingerly onto my dad's lap, a...