The Cat That Won My Heart

Christina Hollis and Magic...

I grew up not liking cats. How could anyone not like cats, you ask yourself? Easy. My fear stems from when I tried to dress a feral farm cat in baby clothes. That was one kitty who was determined not to be pushed around in a dolls’ pram, but I was too young to know any better. I still have the scars.

Magic, a Norwegian Forest Cat

Spool forward a few decades. I’d refused every request from my own children for a four-legged pets. Their record with goldfish and chickens was not good, so their pleas for a kitten fell on deaf ears. Then we had a warm summer followed by a mild autumn, leading to a population explosion in everything small and furry out in the woods and countryside. When the weather turned cold, they all made a bee-line for our stores and greenhouses to nibble away at the seeds and vegetables. We set live catch traps, then drove several miles away to release our haul in the hope the little critturs wouldn’t find their way back. This performance had to be repeated several times a day as mice, shrews and voles can’t stand the stress of being held captive for long. The system worked well until one morning after a bitterly cold night. A bank vole fell out of its trap frozen stiff, poor little thing. That did it. I decided to delegate the task of pest-control officer.

‘We’re getting a cat.’ I announced to the children.

For a few seconds there was absolute silence as they stared at me, open mouthed. Then they saw I was serious, and from that moment on there was no going back. We researched on the Internet and got books out of the library. Pretty soon any member of the family could have taken “Cats And Their Care” as our specialist subject in “Mastermind”. Our first stop was the local cat rescue. They took all our details, inspected us and after a short wait rang with details of a cat in need of rehoming who they said would be perfect for us. We went to visit Tiddles in his foster home, and were greeted by a lovely lady covered in sticking plasters. Tiddles held court in her kitchen. A large bottle of TCP on the draining board should have told us what to expect, but the sight of an enormous one-eyed tom swelling to twice his size with every hair standing on end told us a whole lot more. After saying a swift goodbye to Tiddles we decided on a kitten, so we could teach it good manners before it could learn any bad habits.

Magic aka Pest Control Officer

We wanted something tough but beautiful, and unspoiled by overbreeding. Maine Coons caught everyone’s eye, but the nearest breeder was a long way away and all his kittens were booked up for more than a year in advance. I didn’t want to disappoint the children, so we went for their second choice of breed, a Norwegian Forest Cat. Harry Potter was their hero at the time, so our tiny kitten was immediately named “Magic”. He didn’t stay tiny for long! His parents were both house cats who had never been outdoors, so all our farming neighbours told us Magic would never be any good as a mouser. Cats, they said, had to be taught to hunt from birth by their mothers. Magic soon proved them wrong. From the moment he was first let outside, he has made it his life’s work to keep our grassland free of moles, and spends hours ratting in the neighbour’s stable block. Not only is he a dedicated Pest Control Officer, he’s the perfect house cat too - never sick or sorry, and as keen to be affectionate as we are to make a fuss of him.

Magic is eight years old now, and he’s in his prime. The children never were very keen on cleaning up after him, but he’s such a pleasure to have around that’s never been the problem for me I thought it would be.

In fact I’ll let you into a secret - I’d be lost without him!

Christina Hollis

The Alpha Male

Kay Hooper and Felix...

Felix the Alpha Cat

My name is Felix, and I am the Alpha Male in the multi-cat household of my person, Kay Hooper. I was what she refers to as “one of the original seven,” meaning that when she finished this dream house of hers, there were seven of us felines who moved here with her (plus two canines). I was the Alpha even then, of course, by virtue of my size (18-19 pounds, none of it fat), and my calm but assertive attitude.

Nobody messes with Felix.

Renny the Beta Cat

I am nine years old this summer, a birthday I celebrate with my littermates Renny and Isabel. Renny is Beta to my Alpha, content to be the “sweet and affectionate” one who also takes it upon himself to welcome the (really bordering on too many!) rescued cats and kittens Kay has added to the household over the years. Isabel, far more standoffish, has a tortie’s spitfire personality, is all of half my size – and possesses my meow. Yes, she does have my meow. Something got mixed up in our mama before we were born, and Isabel ended up with my deep-throated, husky meow.

Me? I sound like a squeaky hinge. A small and rusty squeaky hinge. It’s embarrassing! I try not to use my voice very often, but Kay and others have discovered I have a...soft spot...just at the base of my tail, and when they gently pinch, I for some unknown reason have to meow. If I were a mean cat, I’d smack them for that. But I’m not mean. And I’m the Alpha, after all, with an image to maintain. So I merely stroll away without a backward look.

Isabel

Anyway, my duties as Alpha Cat are many, but I make the job look easy. I keep watch from several good vantage points around this large house, from the back of the couch in the living room to Kay’s desk in the study. I’ve never broken anything on her desk, but I do admit to having the knack of napping on just the piece of paper she needs for the WIP. How should I know what’s important? Alpha Cats can do many things, but we can’t read. Is it irony then, that my person is a writer?

I do move when she asks me. Okay, I move when she nudges and pushes and mutters under her breath. Or when she finally resorts to putting on hand lotion. I know, I know, it sounds like I’m a wuss to be driven away by the scent of hand lotion. But it’s patchouli. And green tea. I just don’t like that smell, and she knows it. It’s getting to the point where she only has to hold up the bottle and wiggle it, and I move off her paperwork.

Bandit

One of these days, I’m going to roll that bottle off her desk and encourage the dogs to play with it.

Ahem. I was talking about my job as Alpha Cat, wasn’t I? Right. Right. So I keep watch over this clowder of cats, and I generally keep order. Generally. Some of the youngsters get too full of themselves from time to time, but I usually only have to head in their direction for the fracas to die down quickly. Sometimes the dog Bandit plays referee, bounding into the middle of a melee, which I don’t mind at all. (Don’t tell anyone, but I adore Bandit, who is only a year older than me.) It’s usually a peaceful house, though, especially when you consider how many cats make their home here. And I don’t mind the crowd, really.

Just as long as they remember that I’m the Alpha Cat.

Felix

Interview with a Multi-Genre Author

Meet Jane Toombs and Kinko...

Cat's name: Kinko


Sex: Female


Age : 17


How long have you had the cat?: Since she was a kitten.


Where did you get the cat?: Private home. The lady put seven kittens down in front of us and this white calico with the black tail walked straight toward Elmer and me, then sat down to check us over She’d picked us out, so of course we had to take her home.

Favorite pastime: Kinko used to be hang on the back of a wooden chair batting at her tail, She still does this occasionally even as an old lady.

Interesting quirks? Kinko’s not really fond of anyone except us--Elmer and me. She’s learned to be a great traveler in her cat carrier because we always took her when we went places. She’s been everywhere. But she always wanted to be safely in the carrier, never outside it when in the car.

How does he or she like being a writer's cat? She curls up in an adjacent chair so she can keep an eye on me, making a remark now and then so I know she’s still there. She isn’t interested in in what I’m doing, just wants to be close by.

Has he/she ever been in one of your books?: Not her, but I do put cats in my books.


Anything you else you might want to say about your cat or your cat about you? 
Both Elmer and I have been cat people from the get-go. I got my first cat, a black and white tom, when I was four. My father, a Conservation Officer at the time, picked him up in the woods as a half-starved kitten who’d tried to climb up his pants leg, named him Merriweather, because that was the name of the town he was near and brought him home to me. Merriweather grew up, spent nights out tom-catting around and come home tired out. I’d put a doll bonnet on him and wheel him around the house in my doll buggy. He’d sleep soundly all the while. I loved him dearly and I’ve never been without a cat since. And the first story I ever wrote at seven was about Merriweather.

Elmer grew up on a farm where there were cats in the barn to keep down the mice. His mother would let the kids in the family bring kittens in the house to play with, but they always were banished back to the barn at night.

Note: Kinko survived surgery for a cancer on her eyelid three years ago. The vet told us white-faced cats tend to get this from lying in the sun. He removed it without her losing the eye and, yes, it was malignant, but not the kind that metastasizes, thank heaven. He calls her his miracle cat.

Other cats: The only really vocal cats I’ve had in my eighty-six years were Siamese. I loved how they’d talk to me. They were smart as well. I had a big tom named Zorro who once, when we went from the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to California for Christmas, we had shut in the basement where his sandbox and food were. We had a neighbor check on him and give him more food while we were gone.

Well, every time the neighbor came in, Zorro would happily greet him at the door as he entered the house. He couldn’t figure this out because he shut him back into the basement every time he left. Once day he pretended he was leaving and snuck back in to stay and watch, Pretty soon he noticed the doorknob of the basement door jiggling. Then it started turning, the door opened and out Zorro came. Checking inside the basement door, he noticed a small shelf with nothing on it right beside the doorknob on the stair landing. Ah, problem solved. Zorro had gotten onto the shelf and learned to paw at the doorknob until it finally opened and out he came. With the door ajar he was free to use the sandbox or eat whenever he felt like it.

Then there was my female Siamese we finally named Kitty because the kids couldn’t agree on a name. After I was divorced and living alone with the kids, who were in school, Kitty decided it was time to have her kittens. They would be Siamese, I knew, because when she went into heat a male Siamese appeared out of nowhere and mated with her before leaving. I was headed out the door, but she followed me, obviously in the throes of birth. So I walked back to her birth box and sat on the floor. She got back in. I thought maybe after she had one kitten she’d be content to stay there while the rest were born. No such luck.

The first kitten was born and she cleaned him up. By then another was being born, a much smaller one than the first, so I figured it had to be the runt. Well, she wouldn’t clean this kitten up no matter how many times I put it under her nose. Three more were born and cleaned up. When I finally again put the poor little runt under her nose after she was through with the others, she finally cleaned him up. Then I gently put him where he could reach a free nipple. He found it and began to suck. After than Kitty accepted him as part of her brood.

He turned out to be a feisty little thing despite having the sniffles, a crook in his tail and crossed-eyes--all common afflictions in Siamese. I wondered later if somehow Kitty knew he was defective. Still, as they grew older, though smaller, he held his own against the tumble mock fights with all his brothers. Yes, they were all males--not uncommon with Siamese litters.

When the time came to give them away, I decided to sell them for a dollar each, which would pay for the ad in the paper. All but the runt were snapped up quickly. I had decided I’d have to keep him, when a woman called me and said she’d been away and she’d just seen the ad in an old paper. Her daughter had been begging for a Siamese kitten, but all they’d seen had been too expensive. I told her about his defects, saying that’s why he was left over. She said it didn’t matter. When they arrived, the little runt, tail up, walked right up to the little girl and charmed her. They left with her cuddling him to her and the kitten purring loudly. I didn’t want to take the dollar, but the mother insisted.

“It’s like he was saved for us,” she said.

Which brought tears to my eyes.

Jane Toombs

Owning My First Cat

Michelle Willingham and Fitch...

I never owned a pet when I was growing up. As a military family, we were constantly moving, and my parents never wanted the hassle of an animal. My brother also had allergies, so it wasn't an option. Whenever I visited people who owned dogs and cats, I enjoyed the animals, but I never really "got it" as to why people were so upset when their pet passed away. I was sad for them, but I thought these were animals, not people, right?

Fitch

Fast-forward to last year. We were inundated with moles, voles, and bunnies who were determined to eat and destroy our yard plants. Humane traps didn't work. Chasing them off was ineffective. Putting down grub preventers did nothing to stop the voles from chewing through all of my roses. I'd had enough. I decided that we needed a cat—hopefully one who would chase off the bunnies and deter any rodents from setting up camp in our backyard. My husband initially tried to put me off it, explaining that pets were a big decision (he'd grown up with dogs and a cat). This wasn't something we could just pick up at the shelter. It would change our lifestyles, since we couldn't simply travel on the weekends without arranging for pet care.

I was still determined to get a cat. When I first visited the SPCA, I found a personable, sweet cat who was three years old. I liked him immediately and asked my husband to come and see him the next day. When he agreed, we arrived at the shelter and the cat I'd chosen had already been adopted. Instead, there was a new tabby cat named Fitch, who was almost two years old. He wasn't in his cage but was busy walking around the shelter, curious about everyone and everything. He walked right up to me and nudged me with his head, as if he'd already selected me to be his owner. I felt a bit awkward, since I knew nothing about cats, but when I petted him, he began purring and ribboning around my legs. He was an absolute sweetheart and we brought him home that day.

Fitch has lived with us for seven months now, and I can't imagine life without him. When I'm writing, he'll come and snuggle at my feet or he'll meow at the door when he wants to go play outside. He loves the freedom to explore our yard, and the bunny/vole/mole population has definitely decreased! (thankfully he hasn't brought me any "presents" yet.)

My husband was right. Owning a pet is life-changing. Fitch keeps me company when the children are at school, and he makes me laugh when he crawls into a brown paper bag to hide. If he's away for too long, I worry about him, and I'm always glad when he returns home. He's not just an animal—he's a member of our family. And I'm hoping to keep him for many, many more years.

Michelle Willingham

A Writer's Cat or a Cat's Writer

Kato (age 9) and his property Laurie Bishop...

Almost two weeks after losing my Tojo, my orange multi-toed boy and companion of 18 years, I saw a picture of an orange male cat at the local shelter...and he had two huge front feet. He was it—I had another orange boy. In keeping with tradition I gave him another "toe" name, and he became Kato.

Kato the Boss

Kato came home with me at two years of age. He had been a full male and neutered only two weeks before, so he had attitude built right in. I am his property, as the food and pet dispensary; and he is also the boss of the two other cats I adopted at the same time. He has a right to eat everyone's food (in his mind), he can lie anywhere he wants (others are required to move if they occupy his preferred spot), and he only speaks when he has something to say—and he usually doesn't have to say anything.

Is Kato another writers' cat?

I will let the picture tell the story. He is next to me whenever I am writing, and this can mean on my desk...or my printer....

And now, here is Kato's story in his own words:

My name is Kato. At least, that's the noise She makes when she sees me. This house is mine. The couch is mine. The porch is mine. The bed is mine. The big soft chairs are mine. And the food is mine. My only issue is the food, since She has to be maneuvered into giving it to me. But it pretty much works out okay.

Let me tell you, I had to train her. It took me a little while, but she's okay now. She didn't understand that I'd lived two years in the street and had my own methods. I am a MAN cat, unlike those other two boys she brought home. I don't mind them at all, though, because they know who's boss.

Life is pretty good now. I spend a lot of time basking in the sun and generally overseeing my domain. Oh, and since you ask--I do help her to poke those funny things on what she calls a keyboard. But mostly I am just nearby supervising. It's a good thing I am around.

Aristocat

Lymond and his Can-Opener, Lynn Kerstan...

Lymond

My name is Lymond, Monsieur le Comte de Sevigny.

I am an aristocat, a well-bred specimen of the noble Abyssinian breed, with all the beauty, arrogance, and noblesse oblige that befits my position. Presently, I live in Coronado, California with a reasonably dutiful Can-Opener who attends all my needs, if not all my desires. To be candid, I will never pardon her for the Unfortunate Neutering Incident.

She did, however, present me with a multi-layered throne known by her breed as a Cat Tree and a large window through which I may view the humans, dogs (a great many dogs), seagulls, crows, and other birds that wander by. Most days, I bask in blades of sunshine and nap in the lap of luxury.

The Can Opener

But so not think I fail to earn my keep (although I shouldn’t be compelled to do so). The C-O writes stories that become books that people like, and I add lustre to her career by hosting her website and blogging at StoryBroads. If she pleases me, I may learn to Tweet. I do wish she’d write more stories about cats, however. Some appear in her books, but it is not a sufficiency. I was excited when she produced the Golden Leopard, Heart of the Tiger, and The Silver Lion. At last, cats are the stars of the story! But nooo. They play a symbolic role, helping delineate the natures of the characters. Housecats play a part as well, and two of them save two of the humans. Later, in a different book, their kittens help bring two lovers together.

I hope many kind humans will band together to save Miss Mousie. I shall certainly do my own part, as will my C-O.

For now, it is my naptime. Au revoir, mais amis.

Lymond, Monsieur le Comte de Sevigny

Phantom and his humans

Meet Phantom, the proud owner of Anne Stuart...

I wandered onto the property of my pet, Anne, one fall afternoon. Foolish girl, she had an excitable dog and another cat at the time, and I was going to poke around and then move on when the daughter of the house appeared with cheese. I cannot resist cheese. So I allowed them to lure me in and what do you think the first thing they did was?

Phantom & Anne

Castrate me!

Of all the indignities.

However, I was more than a year old at the time, maybe closer to two (I didn't pay close attention, living on my own like that) so I figured a warm house and nice human pets were worth a couple of testicles.

I quickly showed the other cat who was boss—the same with the silly dog, and claimed Anne as my particular pet. I like to crawl on her chest and shove my nose in her face—she calls it my "hello kitties."

Sigh.

I do like to sleep on her stomach at night. I just curl right up and go to sleep, and fortunately she's learned to sleep that way as well. I'll settle for Richie if she's away on a trip, but I do prefer her. She's softer.

I'm not sure I'm crazy about the name they gave me. When I'd slip around outside they called me "The Gray Ghost," which had a certain amount of dignity to it, and then they changed it to Phantom as a temporary moniker. Unfortunately they took one look at my face, which, as you may notice, has one side dark and one light, and decided Phantom would remain, since Anne's sentimental and loves Phantom of the Opera. I forgive them, though, because they adore me, feed me Fancy Feast and never put me off their laps. When I'm sitting on Anne (or occasionally Richie) they make the other one go and open the door so I'll get up on my own.

Silly humans.

But they do know how fond I am of open doors. I've never met one I haven't adored. I can walk in the front door and go straight out the back if it's open, which confuses Richie. Anne simply says "he's a peripatetic kitty" and I thank God she didn't name me that.

All in all, they're pretty special, as pets go. I think I'll keep them.

Phantom