Stray Cat Strut

It’s been nearly a decade since my husband and I moved onto our street. I think we’re what you would consider a transitional neighborhood. We have a grand late 1800s home, a few turn of the century bungalows, some 20s era cottages, and even some drop dead gorgeous newer homes. We house retirees, empty nesters, and young families. Some of us are born and raised Forneyites, while others of us are newbies to town, to the state, even. One thing separates us from any other neighborhood I’ve ever lived in. We know each other. Having moved from an area where folks practically threw rotten tomatoes at you if you waved, that was a prerequisite for me. Of course, when you understand how we wound up here to begin with, it seems like Mayberry came looking for us.

We are Sunday drivers. I get it from my momma. When church is over and lunch is digesting, what’s more fun than piling in the car and perusing around town? Fifty percent nosiness and fifty percent curiosity, it’s cool to see who’s doing what to a front porch or what might be setting curbside for trash pickup – make that Dina pickup. My mom was an expert Sunday driver. “Oh, look, the Laniers finally cut that old Mimosa tree down. It’s about time. Wilma is allergic, you know.” Similarly, in 2013, my husband and I were driving through old Forney when he yelled, “WEEDER.” He’s a banker. That’s a financial term for a house that is vacant with a yard that needs a good mowing. Long time old home aficionados, we were discussing how fun a smaller and older home could be for us. Eagerly, we parked and ascended a wide bungalow porch to a window showing no furniture, no signs of life. Moments later, I hear his voice again, “Honey, you have to see this.” A boost up to a kitchen window later, I see the 1910 farmhouse sink of my dreams. The house was small. It needed a good leveling, a closet or two, and cabinets, but I had to have it. With the investigative skills of Keith Morrison, I had the owner info within 2 phone calls. Half an hour later we were meeting with said owner who presented a picture of his own childhood birthday party that included my father-in-law as a guest. Within a month we were moving boxes, hanging clothes in hallways, using dressers as cabinets, and loving our slightly crooked, old house life. We even went to meet the neighbors.

The house across the street was a study in, er, interesting landscaping. From the mountain laurel tree that hid the entire house to the vines that seemed to be growing into the windows to the rows of roses and overgrown red tip photinias, seeing this house must have felt like the documentarians glimpsing Gray Gardens for the first time. Personally, I love vintage plants. I adore secret gardens. I am all for letting the foliage do its thing. I loved this sweet, older neighbor with the husband who tended to wander into our home from time to time. I loved the continual gifts of leftover succulents for me to plant and the golden pothos cuttings given with such tender care. Also, I loved the cats. And, there were a lot of cats – dozens upon dozens of cats. I woke one morning to a commotion. My neighbor was in tears. The city was there with traps. “Please don’t take the cats,” she said. But, the neighborhood complaints over feral male cat fights and the scents that tend to accompany such things had proven to be a catalyst for change. Kitty by kitty, the traps were retrieved, until all but a few were taken. My neighbor left, as well. The house was purchased by a lovely couple. Gone is the mountain laurel, but now the home is tended to as if it were a jewel. It has been lovingly restored. But, the cats, oh, they did not go gently into that good night.

It started last year. A feral, hissing momma cat suddenly appeared on my porch with 4 kittens in tow. My grandchildren named them: Jose, Rose’, Jack, & Georgie. Jose turned out to be a girl, so we tacked on Rose as a middle name. Rose’ turned out to be a boy, but we ran out of ideas. Jack had an injured eye as a young’un, so we called him One Eyed Jack for a bit. And, Georgie is just the cutest, curious little thing you ever did see. He’s also the only one I can snuggle with, as I often do. Things have been going great at feral cat central for many months, until she came back, the mean momma cat. Now she spits and hisses at her own children, batting at them with her orange paws, fighting for their food. And, we understand why the prodigal mom returns. She has brought me 3 new babes, all female calicos. They are a little roly-poly vaudeville act, falling into the Meow Mix I leave for them, spilling onto the porch, wrestling with each other as only silly little mittenless kittens can do. I’ve named the new litter. The two kitties that spit at each other and fight non-stop are Cardi B and Nikki Minaj, while the one who runs up to me like she doesn’t know people are dangerous – I call her Zelda. My pleas to allow Georgie to become an inside resident are falling on deaf husband ears. I know I cannot save them all. But, can’t I save one here and there? Recently, I gave out some golden pothos cuttings. I am thinking of planting a mountain laurel tree soon. I mean, if there’s a crazy cat lady in every neighborhood, it might as well be me.