My Cat Kafka

Kafka is the heart of our home.

He’s quirky, unpredictable, borderline schizoid. He shows affection with love bites and scratches. He’s a bipolar love bug with the spirit of a comedic saint. When you want him to do something, he asserts his will and does the opposite. When you need him, he’s there with love and affection and a soft warm belly to engulf your hand.

His name is Kafka. Not because I’m a fan of a certain Eastern European author (I am) or because he’s great at catching cockroaches (he is). It’s due to his origin story. My wife and I met him outside a pop-up coffee house in Silverlake called Kafka’s Kafe. They were having a pet adoption on the sidewalk. We weren’t looking to bring home a new cat since we were still grieving the loss of our previous little dude who left us after 21 years. But we figured it couldn’t hurt to look.

All the cats were beautiful with their various shades and markings. While admiring a mottled calico in a blue blanket, I felt something jump on my shoulder. I looked down and saw a tiny kitten with bright orange stripes, soft green eyes and a pink nose. His claws pressed through my shirt, but he was gentle and didn’t break skin. Someone had left his cage open and he decided I was the perfect jumping post.

“We have a rule around here,” the woman presiding over the adoption said. “If a cat jumps on you, you have to take him home.”