I’ve noticed an alarming development. My residence, which I’ve
always thought of as an average, two-story tract home on the end of
a quiet cul-de-sac, is really a halfway house for wayward cats.
I’ve noticed an alarming development. My residence, which I’ve always thought of as an average, two-story tract home on the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, is really a halfway house for wayward cats. Now, while this may sound far-fetched to you, let me just say it sure explains a lot, like why, for instance, when we moved in we had one cat, a few months later we had two, and now we are up to nine cats. NINE.
I must admit, if anyone had ever told me that I shouldn’t keep the garage door open because a pregnant stray cat might wander in and gave birth to six kittens, I would’ve thought they were dipping into the cheap cooking wine. However, I’ve come to accept that this is just the type of thing that happens to people who live in a house for wayward cats.
But I still don’t understand why this particular cat chose my garage. There are much cleaner and quieter places it could’ve gone, like, say, back alleys and freeway underpasses. My friend Linda said that there’s an old saying that cats choose their owners. This can only mean that 1) I must possess profound inner qualities I didn’t know I had or 2) I’m now the new owner of a cat that has a really, really a bad judge of character.
My friend Nicole, who’s a religious person, thinks there is some deep and meaningful reason it chose me. My friend Julie thinks cats instinctively pick caring, responsible people to adopt them. But my theory is that I’m the only person on the block stupid enough to keep my garage door up.
Needless to say, watching the birth process was a priceless, educational experience for my children. I could tell they were in awe of it by the way they greeted the birth of each kitten by covering their eyes and shouting, “Ugh! Gross!”
One thing I’ve learned about owning nine cats is that your life suddenly becomes much quieter because most people will avoid you. At first you will be the most popular person in the neighborhood. But after they reach adoptable age you will be lucky if someone makes polite conversation. And, on top of that, no matter whom you talk to, they will always, ALWAYS find a way to work in a reason why they can’t adopt a kitten. Take, for example, the last phone conversation I had with my friend Barbara, whom I’ve known for more than 30 years.
“Hi, Barb it’s me.”
“Oh, hi. Say, did I ever tell you that I have a terrible allergy to cats?”
“Well, uh, no.”
“Yeah, it’s bad. I can’t even so much as look at kitten without sneezing.”
“Bu-”
“In fact, I feel one coming on now. Gotta go. Bye.”
The other thing I’ve learned is that there are a lot of people out there who take cats seriously. And these well-meaning people will give you more advice than you ever thought possible. They will tell you need to weigh each kitten five times a day on a postage scale, feed it warm milk by hand out of a miniature bottle and various other little things that you’d never ever do, not even for your first born child. But don’t let that fool you. When it comes time to give the kittens away, they too will become allergic to cats.
But, between you and me, I’m not going to let that stop me. No-sir-ee. I’m not going to end up in my old age like one of those ladies who lives alone with a bazillion cats. I’m going to take control of the local feline population and show them that my house isn’t a harbor for any stray cat that wanders in. And, on top of that, I’m not going to rest until I find a good home for each kitten.
Well, OK, except for maybe the fluffy orange one. And possibly the gray one with the cute pink nose. And, oh yeah, the black striped tabby. I mean, you just can’t find colors like those anywhere, you know.
