I have just started reading Pudd’nhead Wilson by Mark Twain.

When there was room on the ledge outside of the pots and boxes for a cat, the cat was there - in sunny weather - stretched at till length, asleep and blissful, with her furry belly to the sun and a paw curved over her nose. Then that house was complete, and its contentment and peace were made manifest to the world by this symbol, whose testimony is in-fallible. A home without a cat - and a well-fed, well-petted, and properly revered cat - may be a perfect home, perhaps, but how can it prove title?

I must entirely agree with Mark Twain here. A cat absolutely completes a home and reminds me of all the wonderful cats who’s company as companions I have revered and lavished affection on!