Seems that most people liked my last post, Very Random Thoughts on a Cold Day, as a welcome change of pace from my usual, shall we say “darker” fare.  I was working on another of my more traditional posts about the differences between three political-economic systems, democratic-socialism, socialism, and communism, and I came to a point of frustration, so I decided in keeping with the holiday spirit to go with lighter fare again tonight.  Those of you who are animal lovers in general, or are owned by one of more cats will find humour in this.  Others will shake their heads and call me the Crazy Cat Lady (you wouldn’t be the first to call me that).  Just for the record, I would like to note that I always thought of myself as a dog-lover.

We have eight cats.  Yes, you heard me right.  A year ago at this time, we had ten, but sadly two have since died, though they both lived relatively long and, I think, happy lives.  Why do we have eight cats?  I’m not sure, exactly, but it has something to do with the fact in this family we all have soft, squishy hearts.  We did not set out to share our home with eight cats.  We set out to have one cat.  That one cat was Spooky, our oldest, who is still with us at the ripe old age of 20 years and counting.  Spookster is blind in both eyes, mostly deaf, and has severe arthritis, but he is still a happy cat as long as he gets bites of fish and lots of snuggles.  Anyway, all our cats after Spooky are rescue cats in one way or another, and each has a distinctly individual personality.

Tofu is no longer with us, he died last year on Thanksgiving night, but he deserves mention here nonetheless.  Tofu was a kitten when his owner, whose wife had left him for someone else, started drinking heavily, became abusive and set his apartment on fire.  He called us to come get the kitten, as he at least had the good sense to realize he could not care for him properly.  Such an independent little guy he was.  My granddaughter was about four years old at the time, and she initially named him “Striped-ed”.  Some time later, her mother was mocking such a silly name, so we told her to pick a name.  Jokingly, she threw out “Tofu” and that was his name from that point forward.  His independence got him in trouble, though.  Since we live in a suburb, but only a few yards from a relatively busy highway, we do not let our kitties outdoors except under our direct supervision, but Tofu would dart out any time the door was opened for a brief moment while carrying in groceries or simply answering a knock, and he knew how to run and hide, so he was often out for hours at a time, or even overnight.  Eventually, of course, it caught up with him and he was hit by a car, then left to die.  But the children down the street found him and knew he belonged to us, so we rushed him to the vet.  Long story short, he had one leg amputated at the hip and pins to hold the other leg together, but he did survive.  For a long time, we did not expect Tofu to live, as he seemed to have lost the will to live along with his independent spirit, but eventually, slowly and with much love, he began to rebound.  Eventually he would have laser surgery on both ears more than once, as he was unable to groom himself properly, so he looked more like a Scottish Fold than a classic tabby, but he was happy and was one of the few living beings on the globe who actually liked my singing!  He loved it when I would pick him up and sing and dance through the house with him in my arms.  Sadly, Tofu also suffered internal injuries in his accident, and while he lived for eight years, eventually those caught up with him and he died on Thanksgiving night, 2014.

Then in the summer of 2001, along came some neighborhood children with an orange kitten and asked if we wanted him, as he had been abandoned.  “NO”, I shouted to my daughter when she turned to me with pleading eyes.  She regretfully told them that we could not take in any more pets and they started down the street, knocking on every door.  My resolve lasted for all of 90 seconds (all of which were spent looking into my wee granddaughters sad, sorrowful eyes) before I told my daughter to go get him.  He is a largish orange tabby named … drumroll, please … Orange.  My granddaughter also named this one, in case you had not already guessed.  Orange has the most docile temperament of them all, he is the chief caregiver and spends his days bathing and grooming the rest of the crew, then spends his evenings lying atop my daughter as she tries to complete her coursework for the degree in Computer Science she is pursuing.

Then there is Nala, or Princess Nala as she prefers to be addressed.  She is just that, a regal being who spends her days lounging about ruling the roost.  Well, she did until the latest batch of mongrels joined the fray and decided to give her a run for her money, but Princess Nala is nonetheless quite certain that she is of royal bloodlines and reminds us of it in many ways, every day.  Princess Nala was also abandoned, at least we believe that to be the case.  My daughter found her outside the front door one day while I was at work.  She called me to tell me about her and I, once again, said “NO”!  Well, I’m sure that by now you realize that although I was the breadwinner back in those days, I didn’t and still don’t make the really important decisions.  I told her to go to every door in the neighborhood until she found the rightful owner.  Smugly thinking I had made myself clear, I went on about my workday, secure in the knowledge that there would NOT be another cat in the house when I arrived home.  Surprise.

That is the first round of the bunch.  Three years ago, my daughter (you notice how she is always involved in fetching these felines home?) went to check the mail and came back with the tiniest, bravest, loudest little kitten. I took away her mailbox key that day and she has not been allowed to go to the mailbox alone since.  Of course (you already know this dialogue, right?) I said “NO!”  But alas, she had found it abandoned, clinging to the window screen of a house across the street from the trash dumpster, but the people living there and in fact every family on that street, denied ever having seen the kitty before.  During the process of knocking on doors, she heard a sound from the trash dumpster and … lo and behold … there was another one!  “NO NO NO!”, I said, to no avail.  The two spent the night on our back patio and I was smug in the certainty that the next day we would find them a home.  But I tossed and turned all night long, so somewhere around dawn, I went outside, found both cowering behind a plant on the patio and brought them in.  The first one, the boy, we (actually my granddaughter) named Oliver after the Disney cartoon based on Dicken’s Oliver Twist, and the girl I named Pandora, as in Pandora’s Box.  Little did I realize at the time how appropriate that name would be.  Oliver, Ollie for short, is the brave one.  He took care of his sister during their first several months here, when she was still so skittish and afraid of every little noise.  They were so tiny, so helpless, and I thought we surely had until the following spring to get Ollie “snip-snipped”.  But alas … in under a year, we noticed that Pandie (Pandora’s nickname) seemed to be putting on weight rather quickly, and my daughter one night listened with her stethoscope and … sure enough … tiny extra heartbeats, presumably attached to tiny kitten bodies, could be heard in there.  Sigh.  So, two years ago, along came Booker T. Washington (I finally got to name one), Tiger Lily (Natasha-named) and Isabella.  These three have turned our home into a zoo, a veritable three-ring circus, and a terrorist training camp!  Boo is fine, he is an intellectual kitty who loves books, loves to play, sleeps like no cat I have ever seen before, and other than in a playful way, bothers nobody.  Tiger???  She is the meanest darn cat I have ever known, bar none.  She will look at you with her big eyes and beg for pets, but BEWARE!  She will dig her claws into your hand just as you reach out to pet her and tear deep gouges into your skin.  I have permanent scars.  And Isabella, we believe, has the feline equivalent of Down’s Syndrome.  Nobody can get anywhere near her, she fears everyone and everything except Oliver, and spends 90% of her life in hiding under the sofa.

So there you have the story of the feline militia that rules our household.  I complain and grumble because I have to mop my floors every other day, dust furniture daily, we have three litter boxes that must be scooped four times every day, and we spend over $150 a month on food and litter alone, but the truth is that I love them all and wouldn’t trade any single one of them for all the peace in the world.