I love cats. If we know each other, even superficially, this statement is not surprising. Why, as I am penning this little tale, there is a large house panther named Olive sitting in my lap, impeding my view of the computer screen. Her arch nemesis, a lovely calico named Polly, is encroaching. Polly never wants lap time, unless, of course, Olive is already there. Phoebe, the baby of the bunch who the vet insists on referring to as Fibi, is snuggled into the bar stool next to me. Hazel, the old grandma cat, is napping on my bed alongside the big poodles. She genuinely thinks she is a dog and has taken to limping on constantly alternating paws for treats. And, as if that isn’t enough chaos for us, my husband’s office is a refuge for houseless or home-challenged neighborhood feral kittens. Right now, her name is Gypsy.
My feline fascination began in the 70s. We lived in a rural area that seemed to attract stray cats. What a young child saw as a personal cat zoo was most likely no more than an attractive area for dumping animals deemed not cute or healthy or wanted enough. It became a cautionary tale for my life. Things you don’t nurture multiply fast in the wrong ways. Sometimes, you must take care of problems that you didn’t cause. These are good realizations, I think. I parlayed this experience into a master class of emotionally manipulating my parents. By the time I left home at 18, my “no animals inside the house” greatest generation father begged me to leave my inside-only cat, Monica, as a companion. I was reluctant to acquiesce, but my father won the battle.
There were many catless years along the way, especially during the young parenting phase when the moves are many and the patience is wanting. Eventually, I found my cat groove, again. Standout cats from years past include Michelangelo, a large orange tabby who loved venturing into the abyss for a few hours each morning, usually returning with some sort of rodent as a cover charge to re-enter the house. Next came Marshall, a massive black cat who had the unnerving ability to open doors, a cute party trick until it’s 3 am and the bedroom door hits the doorstop. There was Penelope Cruz, the ragdoll cat I inherited from my niece, who didn’t know she was allergic to cats until the moment she shared a home with one. Then, on a cold March night in 2017, along came Olive, the one who changed it all. Prone to double paw, hours-long hugs and stealing my own trinkets to deliver back to me for affection, Olive is the cat everyone wants to clone. When I am finding homes for wayward kittens, I often hear, “I just want a cat like your Olive.” But Olive is a lovely anomaly, a celestial surprise never to be repeated. That is what I tell them, anyway.
I consider myself, these days, an artist absent of canvas. It’s far too crowded in a home full of cats and grandkids and dogs and the accoutrement that goes with all that. There is no room for easels or cavasses or paints. Not to mention the boxes – so many boxes. In this Amazonian world, we drown in a cardboard sea, it seems. The need to create something overwhelmed me, recently. “Seems like there’s something we could do with all these boxes,” I said one morning as I shooed two cats from inside a medium-sized, high-quality box. “Wait,” I said to no one but to anyone who felt compelled to listen, “I should make a cat house.
You know, like a playhouse for cats.” Three days, 200 hot glue gun sticks, and one roll of duct tape later, I presented Olive, Hazel, Polly, and Phoebe (not Fibi) with a Frenchinspired patisserie of sorts, a biscuit factory, complete with a shingled roof, ancient bricks, a striped awning, a flower box, and a gritty urban mural of Marie Antoinette on the seedy alley side. Now my cats have an Architectural Digest worthy spot to knead their favorite, soft bed with their retractable claws – to make their biscuits.
Today, we are saying good-bye to sweet little Gypsy, the office cat du jour. Old friends of mine are about to step through my front door and meet the latest of my helpless feline loves. We are ever so happy for this new life Gypsy desperately needs and never even knew she wanted. Still, this old cat lover and the man whose heart she turned into kitten mush are always very saddened when the babies leave us. The office will seem like a tomb, absent of warmth, meows, and the earnest purr of a cat that escaped a cruel outside life by a single whisker. Soon, Gypsy will be replaced. We already have eyes on another orange babe to occupy the office and our hearts. But for today, we will think of Gypsy as we love on our house panthers a little bit more than usual. Also, biscuits – we will always have biscuits. In the words of both Kacey Musgraves and the French, “Occupezvous de vos propres biscuits et la vie sera de la sauce.” Mind your own biscuits and life will be gravy.
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