I don't know that I would be
considered a bona fide Cat Lady. In fact, growing up, I had more dogs than
house cats. Living on a farm, we always had barn cats who were usually the
descendants of cats that the townspeople would bring out to the country and
dump. I got my first pet cat when I was three and I don't remember how he came
to be. He was named Moose and I don't know how that name came to be, either.
But he was such a laid back yellow Tabby guy. He would let me dress him in doll
clothes and I would push him around in a baby carriage. I remember one day my
Daddy telling me that Moose went to heaven. I still, to this day, remember in
my mind's eye Moose walking away from me, crossing the field, turning his head
to look at me over his shoulder. Then turning back and gone forever.
When I lived in Los Angeles in the
late 70s, my cousin and I adopted a three legged cat named Michael. He had been
hit by a car and had to have his left arm amputated at the shoulder. He didn't
know that he was different. In fact, he thought he still had all four limbs.
So, because of that, when he would use his litter box, Pam or I would have to
come up behind him, take the litter scoop, and cover his pee or poop or he
would have sat in his box until it was covered, which would have been never. Not
only would we cover his business, we would do it in rhythm with his nub
movement so he thought he was doing it himself.
I wasn't really ready to go back to
Texas, but I thought my parents needed me, even though they were in their late
sixties, early seventies and still relatively healthy. My brother lived
in Saudi with his family. I was alone. They were alone. We should be together.
I should have thought about it more. I should have thought about it a lot more.
But, in any case, my Mother flew out to LA, after I had packed up my stuff, I might
add, to accompany me back to Texas. As we drove east, she always talked about
the fog that followed us, over hills, through valleys, across the desert. She
always said that California didn't want me to leave and it had sent feelers to try
to keep me there, to bring me back. I believed her. I wish I had heeded the
call, but that's another story.
So back in Texas, I needed a new furry
companion. Pam had kept Michael in LA because that had been his home all his life. A friend of mine had two cats who were both pregnant. I remember
asking her if she had ever had "the talk" with the two girlies to let
them know where babies came from. Mama #1 had her kittens first, four roly-poly little black fur balls. So, I adopted my third kitty in 1984. I named him Bobby after my favorite brother (I only have one). When I took him to the vet for his first set of shots, I was informed in no uncertain terms that Bobby was indeed Bobbie, as he was a she. I didn't like a girl named Bobbie in third grade, so I renamed my jet black friend Boobie. I always enjoyed folks' reactions when
they heard me calling her "my old Boobie". She was my best friend for 20 years.
I had to put her down on a nice February morning and, while it wasn't hard to
end her misery from bladder cancer, it was very hard severing that tie that had
bound us for almost a quarter of a century. She had been my companion for so
long, had been with me through moves, through broken relationships, through the
death of loved ones. I know some think that cats are so impersonal and
independent. Some are, it's true, but some aren't. My old Boobie was gone and I
wasn't ready for a new relationship.
Enter, stage right, Fencie. She was a cat hardly older than the kittens she was
soon to deliver. She lived under a crawl space of a restaurant separated only
by a fence from my friend's nail salon. She would pop her head out from under
the fence, hence the name, when De came to work every morning. De and her Mom,
Gyn eventually coaxed little Fencie into their salon with food, sweet words and
kindness. There, in a box fashioned into a kitten nursery, Fencie had her four
babies in safety.
Born on a nice February afternoon were four mostly black kittens. I get the
phone call, "Come see the kitties."
"No."
"But they are so cute."
"No."
"Melly, come on over. Mom and I just want to see you. You won't see the
kitties unless you want to."
"OK."
Ten minutes into my visit, I was in love. After two weeks, I had decided that a
special little boy kitty would be coming home with me. Five minutes after that,
I decided that his sister, the only girl in the group, would also be coming
home with me. So, for four more weeks, after work and on weekends, I would go
to De's shop and spend time with my new babies, Moby and Shamu. Shamu is named
for the famous black and white whale because she is black with a white chin.
Moby is named for the artist Moby, whose music I like, and I thought the names
fit well together.
These two siblings were a hand full and I loved every moment getting to know them. I knew this was it, my family was complete. Really, this is it. I promise. I was determined, NO more
kitties. I thought I was determined. But I couldn't leave well enough alone, or rather my friends couldn't leave well enough alone. I get another cat call.
I had a horse friend named Lucy who lived in a really nice barn/stable setup west of town. Her owner was calling me to say the resident barn cat just had six
babies. Thinking that my resolve was steeled, I decided to see the little ones.
When I got to the barn, I set my eyes on one of the sweetest little boy kitties I had ever met. There was just something about him that stole my heart the moment I picked him up and he gave me the first of what would turn out to be millions of head bonks. The property owner was going to keep the kittens and have them follow in the footsteps of their mother and be barn cats and mousers. Now, don't get me wrong. Being a barn cat is a very noble and useful profession. But, I knew that this little sweet grey tabby was way too sensitive to go into that field. So, despite my earlier determination which had instantly fallen, after six weeks, I brought home Bosco.
Boz is my constant companion when I'm home, he rarely leaves my side. He is the epitome of a scardy cat. He is even afraid of his own tail sometimes. Maybe that's why he stays so close to me; he knows I would never let anything bad happen to him.
The three are ten and eight now, respectively. That used to be considered senior aged in the kitty world.
The older I get, I believe that to be middle aged. They are not as
active as they once were, but we have a lot of time left together. When that
time does end, I will do right by them as I did for my old Boobie.
There have been many ferals and strays along the way, too. All have been named, fed,
watered and sheltered. Most have been spayed or neutered. Some have been
euthanized. All have been loved. Maybe I am a bona fide Cat Lady, after all.
