After my dad passed, our house went quiet in a way that hurt. My kids convinced me to adopt a senior cat nobody else wanted, a grumpy twelve-year-old named Biscuit. Biscuit's specialty is comedic timing: knocking pens off tables mid-sentence, yelling for dinner at 5:59 p.m. sharp. The kids laugh at him constantly, and I have caught myself laughing more than anyone. An old cat with no ambitions beyond a warm lap has done more for this family's spirit this year than anything else that came through our door. Seniors need homes too. Ours needed him right back.
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