Harpo was the first of my two adopted boys. He was the last of a litter who were brought in to the humane society in the summer of 2003. (I named some of them: Patty, Laverne and Maxene; Groucho, Chico and Harpo.) One by one his brothers and sisters went their separate ways. At last only Harpo was left, an eight-month-old PEW. So what choice did I have?

My mischief was all girls, so for Harpo it was a choice between neutering and lifelong hermitude. While waiting for the neutering to “take” he lived by himself in a tank. The girls, free-ranging, could sniff at him but nothing more. Miranda and Winnie, the grownups, weren’t particularly interested. But Zuzu— then about seven months old— and Franny— aged just over a year— were all over the tank, fluttering their eyelashes and cooing “Helloooo big boy!” They even went onto accelerated heat cycles, every two days like clockwork.

And then Harpo was allowed to join the mischief… and nobody could remember why they’d been so wild to meet him.