How "a Dog Guy" Got Chosen by Cats

Head of School Dr. Peter F. Folan | June 6, 2026

The Irish have always had a healthy respect for mystery. We know a blessing does not always arrive looking like one. Sometimes it comes disguised as a gray-and-white kitten in Brighton. 

At least that is how it first happened to me. 

I was never a cat guy. Far from it. I was a dog person. Big, loyal dogs: German shepherds, black Labs, wonderful mutts from shelters. Dogs made sense to me. 

Then one day, I was on my way to a wedding when a little gray-and-white kitten appeared from behind a dumpster in Brighton. There was no warning, no explanation for why this tiny creature arrived at that exact moment. 

Or maybe there was. 

These days, people joke about the "cat distribution network," the mysterious system by which cats seem to assign themselves to unsuspecting humans. You do not find the cat; the cat finds you. 

I named that first stray Prudential, quite the name for a kitten. 

Pru became my companion throughout my young adulthood. I always treated Pru like a dog, and he rode around in my car sitting shotgun. He was there when I started teaching, got married, and had kids. Pru had the quiet authority of a cat who understood things before the rest of us did. 

Even my mother loved him. She often asked for him to stay with her, especially during chemotherapy. There was something gentle about his presence, something steady and unforced. 

Pru died shortly before my father passed away. His passing helped teach my children about grief and loss before they had to face the death of their larger-than-life grandfather. Animals teach without lecturing. They form us without our noticing, and they teach children about unconditional love. Pru's final lesson was that even the things we love most cannot stay forever. 

I remain a dog person, and we finally have Bella, our golden retriever, whom we chose. She is the greatest dog in the world, filled with warmth, loyalty, and endless love. 

This spring, my son moved back home from Boston College after his freshman year. He brought laundry, stories, and, to our surprise, a small black-and-gray, tiger-striped, four-pound female cat who followed him into our garage. 

Just a tiny, unexpected creature crossing a threshold as if she had received instructions from headquarters. There was no time for a family meeting. My daughter scooped her up. 

Check. 

Before my wife could mention timing, responsibility, or vet bills, this little cat was already in the house. My wife had all the practical arguments on her side. Then the kitten spent the first night in my son's room, where he named her Maisy. 

Checkmate. Game over. 

That is how quickly love sometimes enters a house. Just a soft step, a small face, a daughter running to scoop her up, and a son naming a stray so she could belong. 

For the past twenty-three days, Dr. Jon, our veterinarian and my friend, thought Maisy might be pregnant, which added real tension to our already unplanned adoption. My wife and I suddenly had nightly conversations about this four-pound cat and our possible expanding family. 

Then, this week, the ultrasound results came back—negative. Maisy is not pregnant. In truth, I was a little sad that she was not pregnant. My wife was not. Maisy is, however, very much ours. 

That may be the real magic of the cat distribution network. Unexpected blessings arrive, usually at the wrong time, often before we are ready. 

We all try to make our life plans. We decide what we need, what we can handle, what belongs in our lives and what does not. Then something small appears behind a dumpster, or in a garage, and quietly asks us to make room. 

Perhaps the small interruptions are not interruptions at all. Perhaps they are invitations. 

Making room may be one of the great spiritual disciplines of a life well lived. 

I am still a dog person. Bella would insist on that. But I am a Maisy person now, too. 

Somehow, this little cat shortened the distance between my head and my heart. 

And that, apparently, is how the network works.