No, he won't. He stops and lowers his head suspiciously, as if I were some deadly enemy. "Come on, Oreo," I say, tapping my foot impatiently.

He sits thoughtfully and begins to wash his face with one paw. Maddening.

"Oreo," I say, "I give you food. I supply all your needs. If you do anything in return, I don't know what it is. Now I'm personally inviting you into my house. So come on in!"

Oreo puts one foot across the threshold, then draws it back. He looks out across the yard with some remote, unfathomable expression. He still doesn't come into the house.

"Oreo," I say, "I', not going to stand here forever. If you don't come in, I'm, going to close this door. This is your last chance!"

Slowly I start to close the door. Does he come in? No, he sits there, exercising his free will or something. He'll come when it suits him, not before. He figures I'll be patient. So far, he's right.

God made cats. He also made people. I wonder how God feels, sometimes, when he stands at the door and waits… and waits…

I think I know.