Growing up surrounded by dog aficionados as I did, I wondered how it could be I ended up the only cat person in my entire family. The truth is, I learned by chance, I'm not the only one.

I was visiting my folks, well into their 80s, near Chicago. It was an early fall morning. Mom was not known for being an early riser. Dad, who'd probably been up since before dawn, was showing me his prized collection of old jazz and big band albums when I heard a mysterious scratching noise.

"Did you hear that?" I asked him.

"No," he answered. "Didn't notice a thing." He poured himself another cup of coffee and continued educating me about the wonders of Dave Brubeck and Louis Armstrong. Occasionally I heard that faint sound from outside somewhere.

Dad seemed eager to send me off to get ready for breakfast. When I returned to the living room not many minutes later, there he was, out on the front steps, entertaining a young tabby. I watched and listened in bewilderment.

"How're you doing this morning, my little friend? Let me know if you want another serving of chicken." Dad's face reddened as he came back inside and saw me observing him. He knew I was in on his secret.

Since the cat was out of the bag, I asked him about his feline pal.

"Oh, this little tiger stops by to visit me every morning when your mom's still asleep. I call him Stripes. He's got quite an appetite. Tuna's his favorite."

I tried to take it all in. I'd always been under the impression my parents were dog people and I was well aware of Mom's dreadful fear of cats. I asked Dad if he really liked felines.

"Of course I like cats, always have," he told me. "Please, whatever you do, don't let on to your mother."

Dad, who'd pretended to be a dog person during his 55-year marriage to Mom, was finally out of the closet. I couldn't have been more thrilled with my discovery.

Mom never suspected a thing.

Q: What's your cat secret?