feline adoration

The first cat I ever loved sauntered out of the woods and onto our porch. She was a lovely calico. Didn’t talk much but always came bearing gifts. Field mice were her specialty. To my knowledge, not a bird lost his life in her jaws.

In the morning, we would discover her fresh gift-mouse-entrails on the porch. She wasted no other part of her mouse-meal. Winter came and she kept up her daily visitation schedule. She would walk ahead of me as I sloshed 5-gallon water buckets to the horses. Then she would flop down right in front of me for a belly rub. She was patient.

I wanted her to come into our warm house. My dad said ‘no’, claiming he was allergic to cats. Within a few months she was napping on his chest as he watched the television.

She knew where the heart was.

With the exception of living in a college dorm. I have not lived without a feline since then.

They are understated and subtle. Their beauty of movement is unmatched. They are completely and utterly themselves. I admire that in a cat.

These two are brother and sister. Dumped beside a road and brought to a shelter at four weeks old. They were fostered and, at eight weeks came home with me.

This is Billy.

He delights in riding on my shoulder, accompanying my teeth brushing ritual and using me for a launch pad when he desires to be on top of an armoire. He walks with his tail straight up in the air. His nickname is ‘The Dude.’

This is his sister, Maisie.

She is a quiet girl. She will not vie for attention. When she needs reassurance, she will quietly hop onto my lap. She is very sensitive, sweet and kind. Her coat is so thick, her nickname is ‘Puma’ or ‘Moon Bear’ for her necklace.

She loves boxes stuffed with brown paper.

Maisie and Billy got me through the Pandemic with humor and delightful antics. They do great eye contact. They express affection in a myriad of ways.

We are family.