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On Tuesday night, I lost my little kitty.

I never knew it was possible to love a pet so deeply and completely until I met Lancelot. We always had "used" dogs when I was growing up—animals from local shelters, or from families that lost interest in their pets. I fawned over them all. But I never had a cat, and I'd certainly never been solely responsible for the feeding, caring, cleaning and pooper-scooping of any animal.

In November 1995 I was living in Washington, DC, in my first apartment. I'd moved out of a group house with my friends a couple months earlier. I wanted a dog but knew I could never handle one with my lifestyle. So I'd "settle" for a cat.

I visualized myself curling up with a tabby kitten. And when I went to the New York Avenue branch of the Washington (DC) Humane Society, that's exactly what I picked: a tiny tabby with big eyes, tiny white paws and a clumsy gate. I filled out the paperwork and paid the application fee. I dusted and scrubbed my small apartment for the in-home interview so I'd pass inspection. When the adoption officer visited, she gave me a warm smile. My kitten was on the way, she said.

I was devastated when she called the next day to say the kitten had gone to another family. How would I ever find a cat as cute as that one? The woman invited me down again: plenty of abandoned, lonely cats here, she said. She was sure I'd find one I liked.

The shelter was a pretty depressing place. The cats sat in rows and stacks of cages, some alone and some in pairs. I saw newborn kittens and very old cats. Some had been there for weeks, and I learned they might not be there much longer. I remembered a few cats from my first visit, including a white cat with one eye. I also remembered a funny-looking black cat that hadn't been of much interest to me.

"Kitty," a 10-month old black cat, was a victim of neglect. His former owners had put on his flea collar so tightly it had grown into his skin. After Kitty was removed from his home, the shelter surgically removed his collar. He had been in the shelter for almost three months; I was told the Humane Society would not adopt out black cats before Halloween. Kitty had enormous black and yellow eyes. Unlike many of the other cats, when I went to his cage he sat up and looked me square in the eye. He had an inordinately large head, and when he sat far enough away and moved his head around, he resembled a bobblehead doll. I noticed he also had pretty big paws, so I figured he might turn out big.

I was reticent to adopt a black cat. I thought a black cat might bring bad luck or, at the least, mess up my apartment with his black hair. But Kitty kept staring at me, and every time I visited I was a little more charmed. Then one day the woman at the shelter asked if I'd like to pet him. She opened the cage. When I awkwardly put out my hands—I had no clue how to hold a cat!—Kitty jumped into my arms. He put a giant paw on either side of my neck, like he was hugging a long lost friend, and started to purr. Deeply, evenly, with strong conviction. I felt my heart fill with warmth, and the longer he purred, the warmer I felt. I was hooked.