insidetoronto.com

If you read my column regularly, you'll notice I can be annoyingly repetitive when it comes to some subjects and "adopt from an animal shelter" is a rant that must cause some readers' eyes to glaze over.

And, as often happens to pet columnists as they age, my rant is starting to take on tones of crankiness. Just last week an acquaintance told me she tried to adopt a cat from her local shelter but bolted when she saw rows of cages containing the hairy homeless in varying states of despair.

She looked down as she told me the story, then threw up her hands and said, "I couldn't do it. It was just too sad." My crabby response was something along the lines of, "Oh good grief. Grow up. Decide in advance what you want. Personality, age, gender. Then adopt the cat that matches your requirements. Just use your head."

She asked if I'd been at a shelter lately. Her question caught me off guard but I answered smugly, "Of course. I was there last week."

Truth be told, dear readers, I had indeed visited an animal shelter but it was to drop off a box of donated pet food with a harried receptionist. Then I bolted.

Last Sunday at precisely 4 p.m., this use-your-head pet columnist and her similarly smarty-panted husband entered a shelter with the intention of adopting a cat. Not just any cat. We had lost our beloved 20-year-old kitty in December and I was determined to take my own crabby advice and use my head and decide in advance which cat would best suit our household's requirements.

The perfect candidate, according to my graphs, charts and extensive research, would be an elderly neutered male. I found the perfect candidate on the website of a local municipal shelter. No need to shop the aisles, running the risk of making the "wrong choice" and living to regret it. After all, I am the learned pet columnist, right?

I phoned the shelter in advance of our visit to ensure the perfect candidate, "Blackie" was still there. He was and, as the staff member quipped, "He's been here for a few months and nobody has shown any interest in him. He must be waiting for you." Of course. Proof positive that I did indeed know what I was doing and I would write about my great intelligence and maturity in an upcoming column.

Then we entered the shelter and introduced ourselves as the new owners of Blackie as if the staffer would hand the cat over the counter and we'd be on our way.

"He's in the room on the right," the uniformed man told us politely. "I'll be there in a minute to take him out of the cage for you." No problem. We'll simply visit the other cats while we wait.

We entered the room and I immediately headed for a red-headed female whose paws reached out furtively while my husband searched for Blackie to expedite the staffer's workload. "Here he is!" he announced. "I said, here he is!"

Then I spotted a white female with beautiful gold eyes. Then a black and white kitten. Then a grey unneutered male.

The learned and mature pet columnist and hubby were adrift in a sea of sad-sad eyes, paws reaching through cage wiring, needy meows, mincing feet and ... we suddenly felt the shared wish to bolt. But we had decided on Blackie and determined to adopt him because, well, because I'm the pet columnist who is inarguably on the ball, completely knowledgeable and unable to succumb to total confusion when the human heart messes with important decisions.

Alas, as it turned out, despite my rants, charts, graphs and research, my heart won over my head. Blackie was everything my brain wanted: an elderly, neutered male. It would have been so easy to plop him into our waiting cat carrier and take him home. But our hearts inexplicably and instantly went to an unneutered grey tabby named Ernie who, at 1 1/2 years old, didn't exactly fit my predetermined list of "requirements."

As I write this column, Ernie is snoozing on the couch, blissfully unaware that he's scheduled for neuter surgery on Thursday. He doesn't know that we didn't intend to choose him. He doesn't know that he stole our hearts simply by being himself. The next time I see the woman who bolted from the shelter, I'll suggest that she try again but this time, I'll assure her that while her head needs to be involved in choosing a pet, it's her heart that will make the ultimate decision.

E-mail jacque-newman@rogers.com with a question, comment or suggestion.