This story begins six years ago, when we purchased our house. The couple we bought it from - well, the wife - had been feeding a small colony of feral cats. About eight of them. As part of our agreement, along with negotiating which appliances and curtains should stay, I asked that the cats be removed. I wanted to be able to let Bridget out sometimes to play without worrying about disease or fights. And I didn't want to be responsible for a bunch of wild cats.

They agreed to take care of the cats, and the husband made some comment that didn't register at the moment but later left me unsettled. I don't remember exactly what he said now, but it was something that suggested he might be capable of shooting cats.

It bothered me so much that I called him that evening. "Please don't kill the cats," I said. "I'd like them removed, but not harmed."

Looking back on it, that was perhaps too much to ask of him. Not too much to ask, but maybe too much to ask of him. He was the type of person who views cats as pests, not animals deserving respect. He was busy, with two kids and all the details of moving. I don't know what I expected him to do, but I absolutely didn't want the cats to die.

When we went to the closing, there was no sign of the cats. I asked him what he did with them, and he said he'd trapped them and taken them to his father's farm. Since that's exactly what I wanted to hear, I didn't doubt him. It wasn't until later that it occurred to me that he'd fed me the line people always tell kids when pets die: Oh, Felix? Well, sweetie, he went to live on a farm. There were a few other indications that made me suspect he had actually killed the cats - in particular, a streak of blood on the deck that I couldn't otherwise explain.

Of course, I'll never know for sure. But less than a year later, I began paying my penance.

Rob and I were on a walk one evening near our house when we came upon a meowing calico cat. She was standing at the edge of a field, and when we approached she let us pet her. She was very sweet. And very thin, except for a bulging pregnant belly. She kept crying at us, and I insisted we take her home for the night until we could figure out what to do with her.

We set her up in the garage. We gave her food, water, and a litter box. And when I placed a towel in a box on the floor, she crawled into it and promptly went into labor.

We watched her birth the kittens, and at one point Rob turned to me and said, "This is going to be for a lot longer than one night, isn't it?" Indeed.

She had a litter of seven kittens. SEVEN. All of them survived, and raising those kittens was some of the best fun I've had. In the days that followed I checked with each neighbor, but no one claimed a pregnant calico cat. I called the SPCA to report her found and the lady there said the cat had most likely been dumped by someone who didn't want to care for a litter of kittens.

Ten weeks later we'd found homes for all of them, including the mama. (Two of them, Simon and Maylee, came into the house to live with us.) I felt sure that the universe had given me these eight cats to save in order to make up for the ones I'd been indirectly responsible for killing.

But now I'm wondering if perhaps there were actually nine cats in that feral colony...

This past Tuesday, Rob and I went for a walk down the same road. Five years, almost to the week, after we found the pregnant calico. This time, we heard a meow and saw a brown tabby cat running towards us from the field. She rubbed against our legs, purring like we were long-lost friends. Her fur was thick and shiny like a housecat's, but when I petted her I could feel her spine and ribs. She followed us home, trotting behind us like a dog.

If there's one thing about stray cats, it's that they can spot a sucker from a mile away.

Call me a bleeding heart, but I cannot refuse help to an animal actively pleading for it. This is a conviction of mine. Which doesn't make me a saint or anything because it's also a no-brainer.

So I fed the cat and made a home for her in our garage. She was definitely hungry, but she seemed even more lonely. She is the most affectionate cat I've ever met. She loves to rub against our faces and curl up in our laps. I took her to the vet for an exam and spaying, and they discovered that she's already been spayed. She has clearly been someone's pet, and so I've reported her found to various outlets with hopes of finding her owner. Sadly, so far no one seems to be looking for her.

We can't keep her for a dozen reasons, all of which involve the best interests of this cat and the ones we already have. I keep repeating these reasons aloud because Rob and I are both finding ourselves smitten. In fact, Rob has advised our three cats to be on their best behavior or risk being replaced.

I'm working with a local no-kill cat adoption organization to find a permanent home for her. As they were filling out paperwork on her yesterday, they asked me for her name. "I haven't named her," I said. "I've just been calling her Kitty because I'm trying so hard not to get attached."

"Well, she needs a name," the lady urged.

I looked at the cat. She gazed back at me, and in her yellow eyes I saw innocence and dependence. I thought about the calico mama and her kittens, and the colony of cats that once considered our yard their home. We are called upon to care for these creatures when they need us, whether or not it is convenient.

The lady was waiting patiently for a name.

"Karma," I said.

One of the problems with having cats (at least my cats) is that they make it very difficult to keep plants. They like to chew on them, which isn't particularly good for the plant or the cat. In our house, we only have plants two places: on top of the entertainment hutch, which is the only surface the cats can't jump to, and in the lahhbrary, because I keep the door closed to that room. Simon in particular is crazy for plants; when I bring the plants down from the hutch for watering, he always manages to get a munch in before I can shoo him away.

I miss having indoor plants, especially during the winter. I recently came upon the idea of decorative terrariums, and realized this just might be the perfect solution for me. Especially since it would give a purpose to my many Mason jars, which I love and collect but for which I've never really had a good use.

So, this weekend's project was to make my first terrarium. I followed this guide. I filled the bottom of the jar with stones and gravel to allow for drainage. I added potting soil, placed the plant, and then filled in with a bit more soil. (I found that a turkey baster is helpful for puffing away any soil that lands on the plant.) Then, as suggested, I added some sheet moss on top for a more finished look.

Hopefully this little guy will be happy. If so, I'll be converting more jars into glass gardens!

Cat Man Do
TV Dinner

This is what my life looks like. It's uncanny. If you have cats, you will surely relate.

Wishing you each a festive holiday, and an abundance of blessings in 2009!

So Simon's latest thing is jumping down the laundry chute. He paws open the door and then dives down into the laundry piled in the basket at the bottom. One of these times the laundry basket is going to be empty and the little fucker is going to break his leg.

Once he jumps down, he is stuck in the basement until one of us comes home and discovers he's missing. When we open the basement door, he is sitting there on the top step, patiently waiting. He looks up at us like "Hi!" and then rushes past and heads directly for the damn laundry chute again, flinging his furry body headfirst down the hole before either of us can stop him. He's like a toddler on a slide, running up the ladder and sliding down, running up and sliding down, over and over again. Except he's not a toddler. He's a cat, jumping down the laundry chute. Which is weird. And annoying.

This weekend we installed a latch on the door. So far it seems to be working, but I'm not convinced it will hold for long. One of Maylee's idiosyncrasies is that the door to the bathroom closet (where the laundry chute is) MUST BE OPEN. She will walk into the room, open the closet door, and then walk out. You can imagine how a neurotic person like me feels about doors standing open - they drive me crazy. So I shut the door. And then Maylee opens it. So I shut it. And Maylee opens it. So I shut it. And now Simon opens it, too. So I shut it. For now, the door is staying closed with the latch. But it's making Maylee insane. She keeps trying to pry it open, and sooner or later her persistence is going to pay off. And then I'll be back to closing the damn door every 5 minutes. And Simon will be back to plummeting down the laundry chute.

I swear the universe gave me these particular cats as punishment for not wanting kids.

There's been some discussion amongst my circle of blogfriends (specifically here and here) about overprotective parenting. I don't have a strong opinion on the subject and don't think I'm qualified, without kids, to say much about it anyway. But it has made me consider where I would fall, if I were a mother. Probably the way I treat my cats is a pretty good indicator of the type of parent I would be, which is to say a total overprotective pushover.

There's plenty of evidence of this throughout my blog. But just to prove the point...

I take them outside on harnesses. Because I fear for their safety too much to let them roam alone, but I also feel guilty about depriving them from experiencing the great outdoors. So I put all three cats in harnesses with leashes and let them play in the backyard. Supervised, mind you. Because a bird of prey could swoop down and snatch one up at any moment. (No really. I read that somewhere.) Or a dog could run over and attack them. And let's not forget Grady... Plus, they always end up getting wound around things and each other and need untangling. It would actually be much simpler if I just took one out at a time, but I always take all three because I want to be fair and equitable. I cannot take sad pathetic feline faces staring out at me through the window.

I only give them filtered water to drink. Sure, if they were strays they'd drink out of muddy streams and mosquito-infested gutters. But luckily for them, they are my babies. And my babies deserve Brita.

I take them to the vet. A lot. Rob is convinced the main purpose of the vet is to treat neurotic pet owners, not any physical ailment of the pet itself. This is a notion at which I scoff, although he may have a point. I recently took Bridget to the vet because I was very concerned she had been losing weight. I was certain it was either hyperthyroidism or diabetes. They ran a bunch of tests, and everything came back fine. The vet's $200 diagnosis was that perhaps I should just feed her more.

There are strict safety rules in our house about not leaving various items (ribbon, twist-ties, Q-tips) lying about or within feline reach. This morning I asked Rob to put away a plastic bag that was on the floor because one of the cats might play in it and suffocate. (No really. It could happen.) I have an eye like a hawk for this sort of stuff. And I admit to taking this too far at other people's houses - I cannot resist pointing out to people the cat dangers that are lurking in their homes. I have lectured my own mother, who successfully raised two healthy children, about a piece of string I found on her living room floor. Didn't she realize if her cat swallowed that it could cut through the intestines?! I realize how completely annoying this must be, but I am compelled. I mean, it takes a village, right?

I leave very detailed cat-care instructions when we go on a trip. You would think our catsitters were caring for an invalid on life support. But there is a lot to know! Bridget has special food, and Maylee has to be fed first or she gets confused, and Simon will eat Bridget's food if he's not supervised. It is very complicated, people. And this is simple compared to the usual feeding system! My instructions don't even mention the after-school snack I give the cats every day when I come home from work.

Clearly, I'm a wee bit overprotective. I acknowledge this. And I could list a hundred ways in which I'm also a complete pushover. Like the kitchen cabinet that I almost relinquished to Simon recently because he came to love sitting in it so much while all the doors were off during the renovation. When we went to put the doors back on, I seriously considered leaving them off that cabinet and putting a cat bed in there instead of the stuff that is supposed to be stored there. Because that's his new special place! How cruel to take that away from him! But in the end, I did reclaim the cabinet. (At least for now.) So see? I'm normal.

One of our cats has a habit of wailing in the wee hours of the morning. This only lasts a few minutes, although sometimes it will occur multiple times a night. It's different from the sound of a cat in heat - it's more melodious than that, a meow-yowling that is insistent and expressive, the closest a cat can come to yodeling. MeOW-eYOW EYOOOOWWWWWW. E-yow-meOW? MeOW-yow-reee-YOWWWW!! The sound comes from the depths of the house, just loud enough and long enough to awaken us, although we always fall right back to sleep. I'm not even sure which cat it is. I know it's not Bridget, because she sleeps the entire night on our bed. I suspect Simon, because it sounds most like his voice and he is just off kilter enough to howl throughout the house for no good reason.

Or maybe there is a good reason, although I could not tell you what it is. There have been a few times when the meows sounded so distressed that I hopped out of bed and searched the house for the source, certain I would find Maylee with her head stuck through the banister or Simon sprawled at the bottom of the laundry chute. But, the meowing would stop when my feet hit the floor and I would discover Simon and Maylee sitting silently in the living room, looking up innocently at me like, "What? We're just chillin' here on the hardwood, yo."

Monday night the warbling was particularly persistent. I considered investigating the situation, but knew the cat was just crying wolf. So I tried to tune it out. Which was difficult, because this was an aria like none other, with vibrato and trills impossible to ignore. Even Bridget, who was sleeping soundly at the foot of the bed, stirred.

Now, Bridget is Top Dog around here. (Except that she's, you know, a cat.) She's the firstborn feline, and she's clearly in charge. Simon and Maylee kiss her paws and throw petals on her path. She can barely abide them, but they adore her. Simon will, in fact, start purring when she walks into the room.

So, the Monday night MEOW-yow-YOWWWWWing continued and Bridget shifted and sighed and finally stood. I heard her jump to the floor and pad towards the living room. And then, silence. The howling hushed, and I happily went back to sleep.

Last night Rob and I awoke to another rendition of the same refrain. "Rrmmph," I complained into my pillow. Bridget was curled against my belly. She lifted her head to listen, and then leapt off the bed. I could envision her marching out there, giving a stern glare and growling, "Shut. The Fuck. UP."

The serenade stopped. And then Bridget was back, bounding onto the bed and settling into her spot. I swear I saw her brush the palms of her paws against each other, like, "Well, that oughta take care of that." And it did. We had sweet silence for the rest of the night.