We have a running gag in our home about who actually owns the cat. He always calls her my cat, even when he's crouched in the middle of the living room floor playing with her.
His arguments are such: "I told you not to feed the kitten on the back porch and look at us now! You fed her. She's yours." (He obviously doesn't mind if he says this while there's a purring cat on his lap!) And the other argument is "She's just like you. Short, Left-handed, clumsy, bad vision, loves food and sleep more than anything, won't leave the blinds closed (that man would live in the dark if we let him!), etc, etc." (The attributes he thinks of vary a little every time.) The problem is that he's right. I have a lot in common with that little animal. But as weird as she is, she must be his! lol
As far as caring for her, he only cleans the litter box if I specifically ask him to. That measures out to him cleaning it out about once every month or two. I get every single day in between. But he loves feeding her. It's a game between them. He starts talking to her in a certain tone of voice he has taught her to believe means "dinner is pending" and whips her into a frenzy of excitement until she meows (she's not a very vocal animal, so this takes effort). Then he feeds her. Needless to say, I don't have to ask him to feed her.
But she shows no excitement over her water dish being cleaned and refilled, so I always have to do that! She isn't terribly fond of being brushed (though a recently purchased softer-bristled brush has made things easier) and she hates having her claws trimmed, so guess who gets those duties?
Oddly enough, he's a really great, well-balanced Dad with his daughter whenever she comes over to visit. But with the cat, he's the fun-only, classic Kodak moment "dad". Weird.