It came with the house

I'm not even sure if it's male or a female.  It's whatever the mood dictates that day.  I refer to it as "she" most the time in a weak attempt to even out the boy/girl ratio around here.

We were sitting across the table from the sellers, the ink still wet on the purchase agreement:  "By the way," they said, "the cat comes with the house." 

 The . . . cat?  

It had been a gift to their daughter from a high school boyfriend they explained.  "You can do with it what you want."

We met it for the fist time when we were moving our things in.  The kids were thrilled with the idea of being cat owners.  The cat, on the other hand, showed a great disdain for our family from the moment it laid eyes on us.  It was weeks before anyone attempted to pet it.  Brandon's bloodied arm was the only reminder needed to keep us at bay after that.  

The chore of feeding it fell to our second son.  He swears the cat likes him, that he has even heard it purr a time or two.  Our oldest son runs in fear when he has a chance encounter with the feline.  He tries to laugh it off but it's obvious to anyone who has heard his screams that he's mortally afraid of it.  It's good to have a mouser around now that we have more land and a creek, I rationalize.  It's worth the price of Friskies and my children's well being to keep the rodents at bay.

The cat's name?

"Patches"

as in "Pat" from SNL.

I wondered if it's name was due to the large, black patches on it's head.

And then I saw these . . .

patches of fur on our garage floor.

Oh well.

We did sign an agreement.