The cat in the hat, and in the bed, and in the garage...

T.S. Eliot has nothing on me. I have five cats in my household. When I acquired the fifth one my daughter warned me I could become known as "the crazy old woman with all the cats". Hmmmm. I wonder if that sobriquet depends on a critical number of cats or the owner's behavior or age or a combination of all these. That remains to be seen. I plan to acquire no additional cats at this time, but historically, felines have a way of inserting themselves into my life when I have other plans. So as not to be discriminatory I also have one dog, who is large enough to more than equal the weight of the entire cat population. He's extremely tolerant of the cats, who by turns harass or ignore him or try to play with his plumey tail.

The little girl reclining on the couch is "Princess Buttercup", the baby of the family. I was sitting in the beauty shop, having my hair cut and minding my own business, when a young man entered with a fluffy kitten in his coat. "She's the last of the litter," he said, as he showed her around the room, "and if I can't find her a home, I'm going to have to take her to the shelter." (shudder) Needless to say, I said the magic words, "Can I hold her?" and that, as they say, was that. That was two years ago, and Miss Buttercup has been my special baby ever since. She's the most loving, cuddly cat I've ever owned and is Miss Personality when visitors come to call--unless they are accompanied by strange canines.

This handsome fellow is "Charlie", at three years old, the next youngest of the pride. A good friend had a very sick, elderly Yorkie whose time had come. I accompanied my friend to the vet for the final visit, and while we were waiting, a mutual friend who works there said, "Have you seen our baby?" We said we hadn't, so she brought in a large carrier with a very small kitten inside. "My next door neighbor found him yesterday in her goldfish pond, hanging onto a lily pad for dear life." "Oh," I cooed, "Can I hold him?" (sigh) I left with "the baby" in the carrier and a promise to return the carrier at his next vet visit in 2 weeks. Charlie is very vocal and very much the master of his little "harem". He bullies the two oldest cats, who are getting up in years, but Buttercup is able to hold her own. Everyone is spayed or neutered, so it's strictly a dominence issue. He's jealous if I pet the dog or other cats, and, like most males, wants to be the center of attention.

This adorably squishy face belongs to Princess Margaret Ann, aka "Meggie", who is the only true blue-blood in the house, and the only one for which I plunked down hard earned cash to make her my own. Perhaps it's because she's the "middle child", now five years old, that she is a real scaredy cat. She essentially lives in my heated/cooled attached garage, although every few days she will grudgingly allow me to carry her into the livingroom where I can plop her down on the couch in order to groom her obviously long and luxurious coat, which snarls dreadfully at the drop of a hat. I say grudgingly because she frowns throughout the entire procedure, frowning as only a purebred Persian cat can frown. Meggie was for sale, along with her litter mate, at a cat show in Carbondale, where I went with a friend just to see lots of beautiful cats, having absolutely no intention of buying one. IMHO, there is simply nothing in the world cuter than a Persian kitten, so I asked the lady, "Can I hold one of them?" (Are you seeing a pattern here?) Once the little flame point tortie ball of fluff was in my arms and purring under my chin there was no going back.

Next comes Jennie, whose full name is Jennyanydots, a name familiar to lovers of the poem/musical "Cats". Actually, Wendell, my late husband, is responsible for Jennie joining the household. He came home from work one evening to tell me I had a "patient" on the front porch. I went to look, and there was a tiny calico kitten, holding up an obviously injured paw. Off to the vet we went to find that all the toes in that foot were broken. The vet said it was as if something heavy stepped on her. Since there was a cow pasture right behind our property, that may have been the source of the injury. At any rate, all the toes on her foot were broken, and since she has polydactyly, a condition defined as having more than the normal number of digits, that was a lot of little broken toes. The two "extra" toes had to be amputated, since they were not normally formed and couldn't be set properly. As for the other toes, four tiny pins were inserted, and the toes healed nicely after a time of rest and recuperation.

It was during the time of Jennie's rest and recuperation in a large cage my husband built just for that purpose, that my world tilted on its axis. At the age of 54 my husband Wendell died after a two week illness. Four days after the funeral I took Jennie to the vet to have the pins removed from her foot. Life and all it entails goes on and sweet, demure Jennie holds a very special place in my heart.

The eldest member of the family, at age 13, is Whitey, aptly named by Wendell, who also was responsible for her becoming an Anderson cat. In fact he carried her back to the house after finding her wandering about in the field he was mowing. Our neighbor said he had just seen her around that morning and was pretty sure someone had dumped her the night before. (Don't get me started on the subject of people who dump unwanted animals--it makes my blood boil!) Whitey is truely totally white, but is not deaf as are many completely white cats. Her eyes are a gorgeous deep green, and someday I'm going to paint her portrait!

That's my cat family.

Last, but certainly not least, is Madison. Madison is my wonderfully special dog, a Golden Retriever mix, whose only "mix" shows in his tail which turns upward in an enormous plume.
His personality and the rest of his appearance is all Golden, and he is the love of my life. Madison was also a foundling, found in Madison, Co, Florida by my daughter and her husband who were scuba diving in a fresh water spring in the area. They saw him wandering the area, and apparently he was a mess--filthy, sick, emaciated, full of fleas and ticks (and heartworms, which of course weren't apparent at the time), but trying his best to make friends. The site manager told them the dog had been wandering around the area for several days and he was worried a car would hit him. That's all it took for my tender hearted daughter, who never met a non-human critter she didn't like. They hauled him home and to their vet, got him healthy and back to normal weight--and neutered--and when I came to visit a few months later, I fell like a ton of bricks. I had flown to Florida, so I couldn't take him home with me right away, but I came home and had my fairly large back yard securely fenced in and bought a spacious doghouse to prepare for his arrival when the kids drove up to visit over Labor Day. That was four years ago, and since the vet estimated his age at two years when Kim and Ron found him, he's now approximately six years old. I hope we have many more years together, my red-haired boy and I.

So, that's my household. All the cats are strictly indoors and Madison is spending more and more time inside as he gets older. They are my friends, my companions, and truly my little family. And do I talk to them? Of course I do! And occasionally they talk back in their own language. I've read that having pets is good for your health. Here's to a long life for all of us!