I will never owe another cat the debt that I owe her.
This is an edition of The Atlantic Daily, a newsletter that guides you through the biggest stories of the day, helps you discover new ideas, and recommends the best in culture. Sign up for it here.
I have had cats since I was a boy, and all of them were wonderful, but one of them left a mark on my life forever.
First, here are three new stories from The Atlantic:
- “What happened to Stormy Daniels is not salacious,” Quinta Jurecic writes.
- Israel’s PR-war pandemonium
- The problem with America’s protest feedback loop
A Special Presence
Almost 15 years ago, I was in bad shape. I was divorced, broke, drinking too much, and living in a dated walk-up next to a noisy bar. (It was only minutes from my young daughter, it had a nice view of the bay here in Newport, and I could afford it.) The local veterinary hospital was a few doors down; they always kept one or two adoptable animals in the window. One day, a gorgeous black cat, with a little white tuxedo patch and big gold-green eyes, showed up in a small cage. I stared at her for a while. She stared back patiently.