If you don't like cats, you probably haven't met Chulo.

He has the longest tail, the softest fur, the cottoniest paws, the loudest purr, the stripiest stripes, the spottiest spots, and the pinkest nose you could ever hope to find in a cat. His eyes are gold and sometimes green, round with curiosity but slanted in contentment. His mouth curves up in a permanent smile. The rounded triangle spot on his shoulder is easily groomed into a heart.

Chulo is an athlete, I'd say more of a sprinter than a marathoner. "Is he a very active cat?" the vet once asked, before quickly adding, "Oh never mind -- I can see it in his eyes."

There are a million funny stories to tell about Chulo. He can jump up and land on the knife's-edge top of an open door from a low table. He can open any door in the house, including the front door, which is how I got this scar on my forehead. Every morning when he hears the shower stop, he comes running into the steamy room, jumps up onto the edge of the tub and taps my leg with his jellybean paw, willing me to sit down so he can cuddle on my lap in the pre-warmed towel. If I forget his kibbles on my way out the door, he reminds me with a bright 'brrrt!' and a toss of his head toward the oven, which is where I keep them, since it's the only thing that he can't pry open.

Here he is in my lap right now, curled up in a ball, purring. I'm surprised by how small he looks, much smaller than his personality, which overflows throughout my heart and home. How can God pack so much beauty into one creature? How can this tiny being contain a soul as infinite as my own?