I poured myself a glass of wine and took a sip before plating my sandwich. A plaintive cry sounded from the door, and I glanced over to see a little gentleman in a tuxedo peeking around the door at me. Okay, so it was actually a kitten with black-and-white fur, but his chest and chin were white and his paws were white so in my defense, he looked like a little dude in a tux. Needless to say, my heart went smoosh.

“Hello, little fella,” I said. I kept my voice soft and low at a very nonthreatening decibel.

I didn’t want to scare him away, so I stood still, waiting to see what he would do. He took a tentative step inside. He sniffed the air, the floor, the open door, and then glanced at me. Could the half-full can of tuna on the counter have lured him in?

I checked the edges of the can; they were smooth. I picked it up and very slowly moved it to the ground. The little guy’s nose twitched. He was clearly conflicted. Should he come closer and enjoy a delicious repast of tuna, or was it a trap? I understood his dilemma.

“I completely understand your hesitation,” I said. Coltrane was playing his saxophone in the background, and I wondered if my furry dinner guest was a jazz fan.

He took a few steps inside. He paused beside the couch. Sniffed it and then very nonchalantly approached the can on the floor. His tail swished, and he gave me an assessing glance before hunkering down and devouring what was left in the can. I’m no cat expert, but he looked on the skinny side. Life on the streets could be tough.

I had planned to eat at the table by the window but I didn’t want to spook him, so I ate standing up, having a one-sided conversation with the little dude. With a few licks of his chops, he commiserated with me about office life and unscrupulous coworkers, which I appreciated.

Surprisingly, when he was finished, he didn’t head out the door. Instead, he strolled into the living room and stretched, looking like a yogi assuming an asana. Then he hopped up onto the couch and began to knead my brand-new red chenille throw. Huh.

“Make yourself at home,” I said.

Judging by his purr, which sounded like a V8 engine, I assumed he accepted the invitation. There were a few problems with this scenario. First, I did not own a litter box so my dude was not going to be able to stay indefinitely. Second, I was quite positive that “no pets” had most definitely been listed in “the rules.”

I finished my sandwich, picked up my wine, and joined him in the living room, taking the armchair adjacent to the couch so that I didn’t scare him.

“You are aware that you’re going to get me in trouble,” I said.