My husband, Denny, and I live with three cats. I can't say we 'own' three cats because no one truly owns a cat.
Having said that, I'll admit that no one needs three cats, including us. Three is one cat more than we have laps, which results in occasional domestic shorthair brawls. But each of the cats is such an individual that, somehow, we couldn't imagine living without any of them.
The youngest is Ernest, who is four or so. He came to us via the streets of coastal Florida. We knew when we saw him that he was of Hemingway cat lineage. The spark, the verbosity, the willingness to engage...and the extra digits on each paw.
He's the one that stalks deer through the windows, the one who chases a ball, the one who tells us when it's time to go to bed. He was a last cat, an unneeded cat, but he's essential. So much so, that he's also a character in the novel I'm writing. He brings humor and warmth to the story, as he does to our home.