Mr. Bojangles
‘‘You don’t want that one,” the shelter volunteer said. “He’s broken.”
“Broken?” I asked. Had I heard her correctly? I looked down at the black cat sitting on my foot. He trilled softly. The minute I’d walked into the animal shelter’s cat room, he’d been one step behind me, my shadow. I wasn’t an expert, but this cat seemed friendly.
“He’s been a stray since birth,” the volunteer explained. “He doesn’t like anyone—not other cats, not dogs, not people. Sometimes they’re out there way too long. He’s already three years old. At a certain point, it’s nearly impossible for them to be fully domesticated.”
“I want to adopt him,” I said.
“Really?” she asked. There were
