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Adoption is for children. If you want a new cat, you'd better just buy one

April 13, 1970
April 13, 1970

Table of Contents
April 13, 1970

Yesterday
Playoffs
  • Transformed by Joe Caldwell and bolstered by Walt Bellamy, Atlanta has an unshakable belief that it will be the first Western Division team in more than a decade to win the pro basketball championship

  • Yoshi Hayasaki (above), who won the all-around title at the NCAA meet, showed again that the Japanese are the world's best gymnasts because they gladly suffer interminable workouts—and slaps in the face

Golf
Cerdan
Baseball 1970
Lively Bantam
Basketball
Horse Racing
Hockey
Hairiest
19th Hole: The Readers Take Over

Adoption is for children. If you want a new cat, you'd better just buy one

If you're thinking of adopting a cat instead of buying one, my advice to you is—quite simply—don't. For years before the death of a faithful feline friend, I had read imploring ads in the PETS FOR ADOPTION section of the classified ads. They all made adoption seem a much less impersonal way to replace my old friend than plain purchase at a pet shop. But they were wrong.

This is an article from the April 13, 1970 issue

The first advertiser I called was patently insane, so I returned to the newspaper and found another. This one offered what seemed just the thing: "Kittens, Maltese, will deliver." I called promptly and asked if any were still available. "We'll talk about that later," she said. "I have some questions first."

She did indeed. After getting my name, address and phone number, she asked if I had any children. I said no, and the answer seemed to please her. Next she wanted to know if I worked. My affirmative answer did not win any points. There was a pause. "If you're thinking you can't afford a cat," she said at last, "they don't eat that much."

"I know," I replied weakly—adding that I had had a cat before. There followed another long and pregnant pause.

"What," my inquisitor then wanted to know, "happened to it?"

"Happened to what?" I asked.

"Your last cat." I told her he had died—at the age of 14½.

"And just what did he die of?" she asked sharply.

I was tempted to say I had forgotten to put on his shin guards before I kicked him but I settled for telling her "old age."

There was another pause, after which the lady announced that I was indeed deserving of a kitten—if only she had one to give me, but she did not.

After that, several weeks passed as friends, hearing of my plight, assured me they had friends with just the kitten I needed. Unfortunately all the friends' friends were fresh out of kittens.

Just as I was deciding on one last try at the classified, another friend reported seeing a gray kitten for sale in a pet shop in Greenwich Village. I hurried down.

The gentleman in charge was not remotely interested in my private life. He gave me papers to sign relieving the shop of responsibility, took my money, wished me luck, and that was that. I picked up my kitten, said thank you and left.

Several days later, feeling very smug with my new pet on my lap, I read an ad offering kittens for adoption. "Rigid requirements," it warned.

Did I only fancy that my kitten and I exchanged a smile?