This is Stanley. Stanley has taken up residence on my porch over the last few days and is selling himself harder than a presidential candidate in Iowa. He wants to be my cat. He'll be the best cat for the job, bar none, all I need to do is take him in and he'll show me that he's got the experience and the charm and the Bill Clinton-esque strength of personality to be the best cat for the job.
Which would be fine, except how exactly do I explain that to the other eleven best cats? There are already too many of them, but saying no to this little guy is difficult. I'm trying hard to find someone to take him, but I've already suckered - I mean convinced - most of my friends to take a stray or two over the years, so the campaign isn't going well.
Best reason to take him in: we were coming home the other night and I was cuddling Stanley on the porch, and the other man in my life, who claims to be somewhat allergic to cats (though I've never noticed a sniffle when he's asleep on the couch with two or three on his chest), says, "You wouldn't take in another one. You're just wouldn't."
Oh, wouldn't I?