Squeak!

Barbara Wallace and Squeak...

Two years ago our cat Squeak contracted a cuterebra investation. (Warning: this may gross you out!) The cuterebra is a large fly that lays eggs in the nests of rodents and rabbits. The larva, which look like small worms, hatch from the eggs when exposed to the heat of the nearby animal. Curious cats and dogs can come into contact with the eggs or larva when they explore the nest.

Squeak when aka DK (Demented Kitty)

In Squeak's case she sniffed up either an egg or a larva who then took up residence in her nose. The larva then migrated to her brain where it bore a hole and waited to hatch.

You read that right. Our cat had flies gestating in her brain.

Many exorbitant (as in my husband may never recover) vet bills later, Squeak was cured. But the worms left their damage. The cat that came home from the vet was nothing more than a furry shell. She spent her days staring vacantly at the wall or walking aimlessly in circles. If you picked her up, she went limply wherever you put her. She forgot how to groom. We took to dropping her in the swimming pool to clean the medicine and dried food off her. Worst of all, she forgot how to use the litter box. Instead, she defecated where she slept or walked. We weren't even sure she realized she was defecating. So most of her time was spent in a small contained space. (She didn't notice.) Her nickname became DK - short for Demented Kitty.

The vet told us she'd make slow and steady improvement, but when Christmas came and she still wasn't using the litter box, he told us she probably never would. We resigned ourselves to having a DK for life.

Then one Sunday in January, the strangest thing happened. Our family was busy watching the playoffs when we heard scratching sounds coming from our laundry room. Since the other cat was sleeping nearby, my husband got up to investigate, returning a moment later with a wide eyed expression. "Squeak," he announced, "is using the litter box."

She's been housebroken ever since.

Today, with the exception of a few minor personality quirks, Squeak is a fully functioning normal kitty cat. She's housebroken, social, curious and clean. (She also hates the swimming pool.) If you met her, you'd never know she'd been sick. When I called the feline neurologist (yes, my cat had a neurologist) he remarked her recover was medically significant.

Squeak today!

Why am I telling you this story? And what does a brain damaged cat possible have to do with writing? Well, the answer my friends lies in the second half of the neurologist's remark. He said Squeak's recovery was medically significant because "we don't have a lot of data on brain recovery because most pet owners give up."

The reason Squeak is sprawled on my sofa today isn't because we're some family of extraordinary pet owners (a family of pet suckers perhaps, but that's another story).
No, Squeak is around simply because she was given the time to reach her benchmarks. The exact same rule applies to your career. Since I began writing, I've seen far too many writers - many of them far more talented than me - fall by the wayside because they quit too soon. They didn't allow themselves time for success. They grew impatient or frustrated and cut their career path short.

Waiting for success is like waiting for Squeak to use the litter. None of us know when success is going to happen. It could be one submission away or ten. Best we can do is muddle through day after day, cleaning up messes and celebrating small victories until that one day when, like Squeak's potty training, success just "happens."

By the way – by helping Miss Mousie, you’ll be helping another special cat. Just like writing, great results are achieved when we dedicate our time and our resources. Here’s hoping that next year we’ll be celebrating Miss Mousie’s anniversary.

PS: The top photo is Squeak last July; the bottom one was taken this morning.

Barbara Wallace

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

How Dumpster Kitty Helped Me Fall In Love (Again)

Wendy Warren and Phoebe...

In a world of cat and dog people, I am most definitely both. Marrying a man who loves animals was a no-brainer (and the inability to become absurdly besotted by four-legged children was a deal-breaker). When I was twenty-three and met a man who was willing to carry a wounded bird two miles back to our house so we could call a vet and who took it upon himself to drive an especially huge black widow spider twenty miles outside of town so it could live out its life in a field, well… Yes, Reader, I married him.

And then life happened.

When we were in our thirties, my husband helped me care for my terminally-ill parents, three rescue dogs and my father’s twenty-two-year-old cat that regularly awakened us at six a.m. with ear-piercing howls to demand moist food and decided that the stroll to the litter box was too much bother, but that the bathroom cabinets would do nicely when he needed to relieve himself. During a drive to the vet, Snowflake was on my lap, unfortunately facing my husband when he projectile vomited like I have never witnessed before or since. Poor kitty. And, oh yes, poor husband.

It’s understandable, I suppose, that Tim decided to take a hiatus from all dependent creatures: “You can have dogs and cats if you want to, but please do not involve me. I’m done. I’m not kidding.”

I was disturbed. I was disappointed. I was totally disbelieving that he meant what he said. On the other hand, I, too, wanted a break from litter boxes and incontinent animals and things that could die and break your heart.

We still had a beloved dog, but decided No More Cats. Seriously. And, since I had adopted the dog, we’d consider her my responsibility. Tim would be as free as that bird he’d rescued all those years ago.

Phoebe formerly known as Dumpster Kitty

And then came Dumpster Kitty.

DK lived in the basement apartment of the house next door. Our neighbors there found her in a trash can and brought her home, but she was frightened of their cat (and of everything else either moving or stationery), so she spent most of her time alone under the stairs. She was especially afraid of men, so when the couple who found her split up and the woman moved out, DK relocated herself outside to an area beneath the porch--in November, during a series of thunderstorms. She emerged only to eat, darting out from her hiding place, her belly so low to the ground that her “run” looked more like a slither.

“I feel terrible for that cat,” my husband said.

“Well,” I offered, “the neighbor doesn’t really want her. Do you—“

“NO.”

‘Nuff said.

When our neighbor went away for a few days and asked me to put our food for DK, I tried to befriend her, but she was simply too frightened. I gave up.

But one day, when I pulled up to the house after work, I saw my husband crouched on our front porch in a torrential downpour. He was wearing a coat and appeared to be something inside it.

“What are you doing out here?” I shouted, running through the rain.

“Shh! You’ll scare her.”

Dumpster Kitty was huddled on his lap, her huge green eyes staring up at his face, one paw extending lovingly toward his chin.

“How long did it take you to get her to come to you?” I asked in amazement.

“Two hours.”

“In this downpour?”

He nodded, gazing as sweetly at the cat as she was gazing at him. “She’s very gentle,” he murmured. “We’ll need to take her to the vet.”

Dumpster Kitty was a year old then. She’s twelve now, renamed “Phoebe.” Our friends call her “Invisa-cat,” as she still has a tendency to hide and few of them have ever made her acquaintance. She is, however, quite the cuddler when she’s with the family. And her favorite place is still Tim’s lap.

I really love that guy.

Wendy Warren

Cats...A Part of Life!

Lucy Gordon and Susie, Nina, and two Berties...

Hi, I’m Lucy Gordon. I write Harlequin Romance, and I’m really glad to be involved in this. I’ve lived in both England and Italy, but wherever I am cats have always been part of my life, although they’ve often had to compete for attention with dogs, whom I also love.

Susie with Lucy

The first picture is more than twenty years old. That’s clear from the fact that I’m using an old-fashioned electric typewriter. As you can see I had a companion who sat on my lap even while I was trying to type. I’d like to think it was devotion, but I suspect she was making sure I kept on working to earn the money for pussy food.

That was my lovely Susie. She came to us because my husband found a kitten hiding under his car at work. She was obviously abandoned so he brought her home and she took possession of us.

Olympic Purr Champion Nina

The black and white cat was Nina, also a stray who decided that we were the ones she wanted to live with. She was notable for the extraordinary volume of her purring. If we were watching TV we had to turn the volume up. It’s a pity that purring never became an Olympic contest. She could have purred for England.

Both Susie and Nina lived to a ripe old age, and left us to cross the Rainbow Bridge only when it was really unavoidable.

Bertie 1

The black cat on the bench was the first Bertie. He was the most adorable animal in the world, endlessly affectionate, always wanting cuddles.

We only had him a couple of years. We were living in Italy (my husband’s country) at the time, but had decided to return to England. We went over to England to buy a house, leaving our animals in the care of a friend, and when we returned to Italy Bertie had vanished. There’s a little more about this on my website.

Bertie 2

In many ways he was my favourite, and when we were finally living in England again I tried to replace him with another black cat, whom I also called Bertie. The second Bertie looked identical but his personality was different. Far from being affectionate he would resist being picked up, and wriggle out of my hands. It seemed that he just didn’t have the loving nature of the first Bertie.

But a couple of years ago we discovered that he has a secret deformity. His kidneys are fused. It doesn’t affect his normal life, but I guess it makes it uncomfortable, even perhaps painful, for him to be picked up.

Bertie 2 at work

After that discovery everything changed. I’ve told him how sorry I am for misjudging him, and promised that things will be different. These days I never try to lift him, but show him affection by stroking and cuddling very gently. And now he returns that affection a thousandfold. He prefers to eat his meals sitting on the desk in front of me, so that I have to stop work to cater for him.

At other times he walks around the desk or curls up on the computer. I can’t help thinking that he’s like Susie, in that he too has made the connection between me working and him eating.

I can’t imagine life without cats. And I hope I never have to.

Lucy Gordon

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

Isabelle aka IzzyB aka MissB aka Puss

Nikki Logan and Isabelle...

I'm a blue British Shorthair!

 Hi from Down Under. I’m Isabelle and I’m a blue British Shorthair. Back in the day I was a prize-winning champion for my beautiful features but turned out I had dud kittens and so my breeder took me to the vets to be euthanized (the life of a breeding cat is kinda miserable). Lucky for me the vet was the sister of romance author Nikki Logan and she offered to use the fee to re-home me rather than put me to sleep. Within twenty-four hours I was sterilised and recovering at my new home with Nikki.

That was nearly sixteen years ago now and I’m getting on, but I’m still the same gentle, placid and beautiful natured cat I always was.

I love tummy rubs!

You can probably tell from these pictures what my favourite things are – tummy rubs (the only time my fur is ever shamelessly out of place) and sleeping. If it’s cold enough I even sleep right on my face. I also love food and snuggles. A lot. Dogs, not so much. We have two of them here and they’re like unruly teenagers. Fortunately one swipe of my paw is all it takes to keep them in line. When no-one’s looking I even snuggle up with them but if you repeat that I’ll deny it.

Anyway, I just wanted to tell Miss Mouse to hang in there. It’s a big operation but she’ll feel so much better afterwards.

I sleep on my face when it's cold!

Please donate if you can. I’ve been lucky enough to be healthy most of my life but not all cats are so lucky.

$5000 sounds like a lot but it’s not really when you think about how many people have years and years of enjoyment from their feline friends.

Anyhoo, that’s it.

Look me up if you’re ever down under. Or you can look Nikki up from wherever you are – www.nikkilogan.com.au She’ll pass any kitty fan mail onto me.

Isabelle (Logan)

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

Family in need!

Melissa McClone and Miss Mousie...

You can read how we came to foster in the Meet Miss Mousie section here. I said most of what I wanted to say about our lovely lady there, so I'll turn it over to her now.

When subtlety doesn't work...

Hello! I'm Miss Mousie. Do you like my blog? I do. I know some people worked very hard on it. And it's a good thing. I need your help so they don't send me some place I'm not ready to go. There might be a rainbow there, but so what? I like it where I am. And I'll let you in on a little secret. I arrived here just in time in February. The truth is...my family needs me!

Without me, they would never wake up. Well, occasionally that dog will bark or mommy will wake up automatically because she has a book due, but if not, morning wake up is left to me. I'm always on the job and have them up and about before that annoying sound box of last resort goes off.

Can you believe none of the other cats had even thought of doing this before I arrived? Now they reap the benefits of my brilliance. But that also puts pressure on me. I can't let them down. Starvation is not pretty. I think mommy likes my head butting and loud purring, too, because usually I ignore her.

I taught her how to do this

Why do I ignore my crazy cat lady mommy who will rub me if I pretend I don't want to eat or try three different foods if I turn my nose up at what's in the bowl?

Because I can.

I knew I'd won her heart over the minute she saw me in the cat house so there's no need for me to turn into that dog (named Chaos and she lives up to her name let me tell you) who just fawns and stares up at her in pure adoration. Mommy, aka the servant, puts two different kinds of icky drops in my ears each day. You'd ignore her, too, if you were me.

The one time I don't ignore her is deadline time. Why? Because she'd rather be left alone.

Deadline time is one of my favorites because she sits and types for hours. I can nap against her and know she's not going to move. It's almost like she's a cat because daddy brings her food and rubs her feet. I'm still trying to figure out what I must do to get the same treatment. Though I'd much rather have under my chin scratched.

This is how we nap while mommy works

There's another reason my family needs me. Two actually.

The black cats adopted from the West Columbia Gorge Humane Society.

Between you and me, they are severely troubled. We're talking really messed up in need of a animal behaviorist if not for my intervention.

Yoda, who turned three at the beginning of August, actually thinks he's a Ninja Cat. Mommy has encouraged his foolish behavior, allowing him to post on her blog. It really has to end. Cats might be two opposable thumbs away from world domination, but we are not Ninja. We are better than Ninja!

I'm teaching Beauty how to help mommy

And don't even get me started on Beauty, the baby of the family, who still wears a bell on her collar. As if she's going to get lost at her size. She turned one two weeks ago and everyone dotes on her. Yoda thinks she some sort of princess he must protect. That is when he's not trying to attack her to work on his Ninja fighting skills. Beauty needs me to show her how to be a real cat, to know when to purr and when to act aloof and when to kick Yoda out of the Master Bedroom, because right now Beauty allows herself to be wheeled around in a doll stroller. Worse, she likes it. Young ones these days...

Well, my spot on the cat tree beckons. It's time for another nap. 

Thank you for visiting my blog!

The Problems of Living With a Goddess

Janis Susan May/Janis Patterson and Sakhmet...

I was born a Leo, so it naturally follows that I love cats and have had at least one for most of my adult life. My mother, of course, disliked any kind of indoor animal, which accounted for a lot of our conflicts.

Of all the cats I have had, Sakhmet was the most memorable. Some backstory – sometimes back in the 1940s someone had dumped a pair of Siamese out in the country behind my grandparents’ barn. They had stayed and interbred until over the generations a recessive gene had become dominant, resulting in a tribe of pure-black Siamese.

I had just moved into my own place and was determined to have a cat, so – with a little cunning, a lot of luck and a great deal of smelly cat food – I captured a tiny little black kitten. I didn’t know what I was getting. Born feral, she never really domesticated. We lived in an uneasy truce for the next 20 years. I named her Sakhmet after the unpredictable lion-headed Egyptian goddess, and the name fit her to a T. Sakhmet could easily have been the last living saber-tooth!

Her vet, who both respected and feared her, said that she had all the Siamese traits – small feet, a heart-shaped face, a voice that sounded like a baby being skinned – but she was completely black (and never got a gray hair!) with enormous eyes that went from green (happy) to gold (better leave until she calms down).

Sakhmet hated people. I was tolerated because I was the bringer of food, but whenever visitors came to my apartment she vanished. People I had known for years swore up and down I didn’t have a cat, that I merely went outside, gathered tufts of hair from the bushes and rubbed them on the carpet so that people would think I had a cat!

Sakhmet was also the most intelligent creature (including some of the two-legged ones I dated) I’ve ever seen. She could turn lights on and off, loved to answer the telephone and could open any door in the place. I had to keep the front and back outside doors key-deadbolted just to be sure.

This was during the heyday of the dinner theatre, when you could have a buffet dinner and then see a play with some of the older luminaries of Hollywood. I was an actress then and was delighted to be cast in UNDER PAPA’S PICTURE, a piece of froth starring the late great Eve Arden. There are several blogs worth of stories from that play’s six-week run, but I’m going to tell only one.

It’s a well known fact that Miss Arden was a great animal lover, and as we had to spend a fair amount of time in the green room waiting for our cues, we would regale each other with tales of our furbabies. She became entranced with some of Sakhmet’s adventures, but I never dreamed where it would lead.

The play ran over the Christmas holidays, so I decided I would have a great big party for the cast. The party was a success, until someone asked where Miss Arden was. Well, I had seen her and her husband Brooks West arrive, and he was in the living room talking to someone, but there was no sign of Miss Arden.

I went looking. It was not that big a place, so I soon found her, and my heart almost stopped. She was in my bedroom, lying flat on the floor and scrunched about three-quarters of the way under my bed, cooing to Sakhmet, who was doubtless as far into the corner as she could get.

I thought I might die. Not only was Eve Arden (Our Miss Brooks!) under my bed, she was under there not only with a half-wild cat who hated everyone but a generous herd of killer dustbunnies as well!

It all worked out all right. She just got one clawing from Sakhmet, and it only took a minute or two to detach most of the dustbunnies, but for the rest of the play she talked again and again about meeting the legendary Sakhmet. She never mentioned the dustbunnies. Thank goodness.

Once when I had to take a trip I frankly blackmailed a police officer friend of mine into taking care of her at his house. He was a patrolman, over 6 ft tall and very fit, but he was no match for Sakhmet. I came home to find her back in my apartment, with a shredded pillowcase and a tray of food and water just barely beyond the swing of the front door. She had lasted exactly two days at his place before terrorizing his family so much that he gave in and brought her back. For the remaining three weeks of my trip he drove almost ten miles each way every day to feed and water her.

One Thanksgiving I came to stay with my widowed mother. I brought Sakhmet because the weather was deteriorating. We ended up being snowed in for a number of days. Before it was over the war between Mother and Sakhmet made me think seriously of abandoning the two of them and hiking back to my apartment through the snow. It was only four miles…

Sakhmet liked to lie on shiny, slick fabric. In the den Mother had two antique chairs that were covered in a glorious satin. Sakhmet loved them. Mother was afraid she would have an ‘accident’ on them. Mother covered the chairs with towels, but the next morning the towels had been scraped off onto the floor and Sakhmet was spread in luxurious abandon over the satin. The next night Mother tried pillows. The next morning they were on the floor. The next night Mother gave up and moved both chairs into the living room and shut the door.

The den was carpeted in a beige shag (this was a number of years ago) and there were definite impressions of each chair’s four legs. In the morning – as neatly as if it had been plotted with a ruler – in the middle of each chair’s impressions was a small, brown gift. Mother said she had been right, that Sakhmet had had an accident. I said no, that was no accident, it was a deliberate! The next day the snow melted – thank you, God! – and Sakhmet and I went home.

Though she was sometimes difficult and often downright weird, Sakhmet was also a loving companion. She would lie on my desk while I wrote and slept every night in the small of my back. She was a big part of my life.

Sakhmet lived for 21 years. Toward the end she was very frail and ill, and I was so selfish I could not bring myself to do the right thing and have her put to sleep. She took the decision out of my hands. I had to be out of town, so Mother – unwilling to have Sakhmet in her home again, though this was many years later – drove the 4 miles to my apartment every day to feed her. Sakhmet waited until I was out of town to die. Mother buried her in the most beautiful part of her back garden and put flowers in her grave.

I’ll never forget the feeling of coming home to that empty, empty apartment. I’ve had many other cats since Sakhmet’s passing, but none have equaled her in intelligence or personality. Or temperament. Unfortunately, all my pictures of her perished in the disaster of a flood caused by a burst pipe, so all I have of her is memories. Sleep well, my dear old friend. I still miss you.

Janis Susan May/Janis Patterson

Angel Kittens

Teresa Hill and her cats Inky and Khleo...

Khleo

 I believe sincerely that our animals are little angel spirits, come to Earth to make our lives happier and help us through difficult times. I have the joy and comfort of two Angel cats. This is how they came to be ours and why I believe they’re little angels.

At the end of my kids’ second and fifth-grade years, we met a new family whose kids would be attending our kids’ school. The mom, Laura’s, son was a year younger than mine, her daughter a year younger than my daughter.

Over the years, the kids ended up on the same swim team, soccer team, basketball team, too. We carpooled to all and became quite close.

But within weeks of us meeting, Laura, found out the breast cancer she thought she’d defeated two years ago had returned, now in her lungs. It was bad, really bad, and her kids were still so young.

She fought bravely through tons of chemo and a lot of pain.

Three years later, school had just started again, her kids in fifth and eighth grades, and she was feeling great. Her stem cell transplant had been declared a success. Her hair was coming back in, her coloring good. She’d even regained a bit of weight.

One beautiful fall day, as I dropped the kids off after school, we found her working in her yard. She was so happy, said she’d been there all day, so pleased to have the energy for the work.

That evening, as I turned into the neighborhood to drop the girls off from soccer practice, there was an ambulance leaving, sirens screaming
.
When we got to their house, we found out Laura had been in that ambulance with no pulse, no respiration. She’d collapsed in the front yard. I had her daughter in my van.

It didn’t make any sense. You don’t literally drop dead from cancer. All the doctors could say was that she’d had a lot of high-dose chemo, and it could be really hard on people’s hearts.

She lingered in a coma for a few days, but never regained consciousness. There was no chance for goodbyes to anyone.

Two other things happened that week that some people might say were coincidences, but I really don’t believe in coincidences. I believe things happen for a reason. I have faith that things work out as they’re supposed to.

One, a stray cat showed up at our house, and from the look of her, we were certain she was pregnant. We had two dogs and never planned on adding cats to the mix.

But the cat was going to be a mother, and I knew two kids who were in the middle of losing their mother. Life was crazy, scary and stressful. I took the path of least resistance and fed the cat, and I know what people say happens when you fed a stray cat. It becomes yours.

The second thing was that I was finishing a book, due in eight days. And I’m not saying a deadline was important in that moment. It’s just that the book happened to be about four adult children trying to come to terms with the death of their mother from cancer. The mom dies in the first chapter.

No way I see that as a coincidence.

I remember saying, “Really, God? I’m supposed to find something to say in this book to help make sense of the loss of these kids’ mother? Because I don’t have anything to say that makes sense about this.”

There was a third thing that happened, so unexpected and so bad, that if I put it in a story, people would swear I was being melodramatic. A week or two later -- I honestly don’t remember exactly when, it was such a horrible time – a little girl, in fifth or sixth grade, on our girls’ soccer team died. A bicycle accident.

So these poor, traumatized girls who’d just watched one of their teammates lose her mother, now had to deal with one of their teammates dying, and a mother had to deal with the loss of her child.

Like I said, crazy-bad, scary times.

What do you do? You go on. There’s really no other choice.

The dad and I carpooled for years to come, until my son started driving and he took over some carpool duties.

Inky

And there were times, even in that first winter and spring that followed when we laughed and were happy, thanks most often to the kittens the cat we named Milano had.

It’s really hard to be sad all the time when you have kittens. Milano produced five in my son’s closet one day when we’d been at a basketball game.

They were adorable and so sweet, so funny, a real blessing.

We still have two of her kittens, Inky and Khleo, our Angel Cats.

The book I was writing at the time was Someone to Watch Over Me, and the message I realized it already included was to not be afraid of letting yourself love, even if you had already lost someone you loved.

There were no cats in the book, but it does feature one of our dogs.

Dogs are little angels, too, I believe.


Teresa Hill

An Unexpected Kitten Gift

Karen Rose Smith and Zoie Joy...

Karen Rose Smith

When I'm writing, each day is an adventure of finding out what my characters are going to say and do next. My life, on the other hand, I like to keep on an even keel. The unexpected happens but still in an "ordinary" way.

As we get older, our lives become filled with anniversary dates. I try to find positive ways to deal with those anniversary dates and holidays and when I miss someone I love. June has one of those anniversary dates for me--my parents' anniversary.

When I was growing up, I always had a cat. My mom cuddled them. My dad tolerated them. But he knew how much I loved each one we befriended over the years. So when I got married, it was natural to have a cat or two. We have two now who are eleven years old. We hadn't expected to bring any more into our lifestyle. After all, don't we all know our place? Aren't our lives settled the way they are?

Zoie Joy

As my parents' anniversary date approached, I was busy with a book deadline and thinking maybe this year, I would take a walk and get on with my day. But... My husband was gardening. When he came in for lunch, he told me he'd heard a baby kitten in a small gnarled weeping redbud tree by our patio. When I went outside, he found her and it was love at first sight. She was tiny, scared, dehydrated and hungry. After we fed her mashed-up cat food with water, she cuddled right up with me and fell asleep in my arms. I held her most of the day, feeding her little bits often. After my husband drove to the store to buy kitten food, I asked, "Do you know what today is?" And he did. We were keeping her.

We named her Zoie Joy. Zoie after a character in one of my books who runs away to find bliss...and Joy because that's what this kitten has brought us.

And yes, I believe my parents sent us this little gift because we needed to remember that life isn't just about routine and busyness--but about those unexpected joys.

Karen Rose Smith

©2012 Karen Rose Smith

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

Forever in an author's heart

Trish Jensen and Foxy...

Foxy

This is Foxy. Although now deceased, she owned me for twenty years. Found her at the ASPCA when I went in just on a whim, with no intention of actually leaving with an animal. As I looked around, she began "talking" to me, and held her paw out for me to shake hands. She instantly licked my hand when I touched her paw. I asked one of the workers if they'd let me hold her. Once the crate opened up, she literally leapt into my arms. She instantly began nuzzling my neck, and licked me, making me giggle. There was no way she was letting go. She'd found her slave, and she was holding on to me for life.

The vet estimated she was about six months old when I adopted her, and she was well over twenty years when she gave me the "I'm ready" look that broke my heart. A long-haired calico, she became Foxy because her tail was so fluffy, and she had fox-like ears. And she was also wily as a fox, too. She knew exactly how to bend me to her will. I made a ton of tuna salad over those years because she loved lapping up the tuna juice and bits. Obviously, the sound of the can opener had her galloping to the kitchen from any corner of the house. She was the greatest kitty, right to the end. She put up with the dogs, often cleaning their eyes without complaint when they'd nose her to do so. But as you can see, this was her favorite nap spot, as the sun warmed her and she could watch all of the birds flying around outside of the window. It's been a few years, but she's forever in my heart.

Trish

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