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One Tuesday morning after Labor Day, I was ironing a shirt for work when there was a knock at the door. It was a woman I recognized from up the street, and there was a kitten, about four months old, at her feet.

"Is this one of yours?" she asked.

My wife and I had quite a clutter at the time, and we also kept an eye on some of the many strays that lived in our neighborhood, getting them fixed or feeding them when necessary.

No, this little fella with the white fur and gray tabby paint splatter wasn't ours, but I wasn't going to turn him away. Before leaving for work, I set him up in the bathroom with the essentials. Even at that age, Bongo had more personality than he knew what to do with.

I actually thought he was deaf for a few moments the first night he was with us because he wouldn't respond to loud noises. But that, I would come to learn, was just Bongo; nothing fazes him. He's like no other cat I've ever known. Confident, grouchy, loving, stubborn, and loyal, he plasters himself at my side as I sleep.

My wife brought him to visit a few times when I was stuck in the hospital, and he just made himself at home in my room and made the three-month stay go by much faster. He never hisses in fear but does so constantly out of irritation, as when I'm walking behind him or I need the chair he's sitting in.

Whether I call him by name or one of his numerous aliases, including "B," "17" (he had to have a toe amputated a few years ago), or "Bongo-riffic Super Bear" (his favorite), he'll always be the strange little malcontent who's more like me than I care to admit.

Story submitted by Mike Grunwald from San Diego, California.

This story was originally shared on The Animal Rescue Site. Share your very own rescue story here!