The Year of the Cat(s)

2018 was a record year for cats.

Bob and I have always had cats.  To be honest, too many cats (if there is indeed such a thing).  To be precise--6 cats.  Somehow it always seemed to remain fairly stable at that number.  And we really tried to keep it there.  The line in the sand.  That which separates us from Crazy Cat People.   Somehow we thought if we ever broke the 6 cat rule, then the landslide would happen and Goddess knows how many cats we would end up with.

And then came little Wilhelm.  Found in a gutter during a deluge, maybe two weeks old, and we never did successfully find out who actually found him and how he got passed around until he landed in Bob's office.  But there's no way I could bottle raise a kitten and then give him up.

So.  Seven cats.  Now what?   We retired at the end of that year, and Bob confidently said that would probably solve the cat problem as we usually got them as campus rescues.  We clung to this belief, sort of ignoring the fact that of the seven cats, three were from campus, one was foisted off on us at our vet's, and the other three had simply shown up in the yard.  It was a convenient thing to forget.  It was 2014 and all was well.

Until February 2018.  So far, so good.  No cat "tipping point" had happened.  Then this handsome gentleman showed up.

It's not uncommon for a stray to occasionally show up in the yard.  The incumbent cats generally make them unwelcome, and we do variations of "shoo shoo."  This one had been spotted for a month or so, but ran off at the sight of us.  Until one fateful day when he ran off, turned at the protective edge of the wood, and meowed at me.  I just stood there going "Oh, crap."  Bob came over.  "What's wrong?"  "He meowed at me."  "Oh crap."

One thing non-cat people don't understand.  Cat don't generally meow.  It's a kitten thing--and sometimes the mother will meow at the kittens.   Cats meow at their people.

He had me at meow.    We had been claimed, without getting a vote in the matter (or the other cats, for that matter.  There's still some grumbling going on).  By the next day he rubbed our ankles and wanted his ears scratched  We made him a warm cat bed in the barn, but I looked out a couple of nights later (when it was due to be in the 20's) and he was sleeping on a plastic chair on the front porch.  So of course a warm bed and just possibly a dish of food happened.  I told him he wasn't our cat for about three weeks, then gave in and made it official (meaning he got his shots and neutered).

So--Hamish the Moggy.  Which translated from Northern English means "James the Cat" but it sounds so much better in a foreign language.

He's a mystery.  Totally sweet--the techs at the vet's were cooing over him.  Sociable.  Litter trained.  Obviously loved, obviously used to being indoors.   Foreclosure cat, maybe?

Eight cats.   But eight is OK, right?  No worse than seven.  We can stop anytime we like.

Until mid-October.  I might have already possible mentioned that there was a HUGE FRICKIN' HURRICANE on October 10.  A few days later I get a call from Della (Bob's sister, who lives in Mexico Beach, where that bastard of a hurricane came ashore).  Even under normal circumstances Della talks really fast.  These were not normal times and it was like listening to a vocal machine gun.  Early in the morning before I had my tea.  I sort of made out "do you want cats?"  and mumble something to the effect that I already have 8 cats.  Then awareness dawns and I realize she's talking about *her* cats.

I don't think of Della and Don as having cats, because when we go visit we are rather overwhelmed by dogs.  Three of them super active (a Jack Russel Terrier and two corgis) and one who simply takes up most of a room (the Newfie).  But she also has three cats, who had done what cats do when Della and Don were prepping to evacuate and disappeared.  Much as she hated it, she had to leave them to weather the storm.

But her house is one of the only ones to have survived ("survived" is being used loosely here; let's just say that most of it is still standing).  She and Don and the four dogs will be living in an RV in the front yard for a long time to come.  The cats need a home.

So three more are in the household.   And they are amazing.  I was expecting them to be totally freaked out.  First they have to be in a house that is being ripped apart inside, household goods flying out the windows.  Then they are dumped onto the back deck of a strange house (I opted to put them on the screened deck for a couple of weeks to have a place of their own to calm down).  They came out of their carries, looked around, thought it was pretty cool--tables to climb on, warm kitty caves, plenty of squirrels to watch, no yappy dogs).  Within two weeks they were in the house and settled down.  My cats hissed a bit, but simply got ignored.  So now the tribe includes:

Tula--about 14 years old, long haired tortoiseshell.  Bob loves torties--and it appears to be mutual.  She's not as grumpy as her picture looks.

Red Bug (which Bob insists is R-e-d-d- B-u-g-g ReddBugg as in "RagMop.")  Actually he's gone through the Durham Ellis Island, because Don found him as a kitten in some pine straw and named him Chigger which I think is a horrible name for a cat.  Della gave us RedBug as an alternative, and it works because he's a ginger.  About 6 years old and hard to get him to hold still for a picture.

And finally the little heartbreaker Stumbles.  She was born with cerebellar hypoplasia, which is a fancy way of saying she's not wired quite right.  She has balance issues and falls over easily (but it gives her a quite cute prancing walk).  She was a rescue when a meth lab got raided, and at one point had been set of fire--she's got cute little round ears because they had to be trimmed.   And, like the others, she had to  ride out a hurricane and then get dumped in a strange household.  If any animal deserves to be skittish and shy, it's her.  Quite the opposite--she's a confident little cat, very friendly and playful.

Of course, we're just babysitting these guys--but probably for at least a year.  And we've already gotten attached so Della and Don might not get them back . . . 

But it is a little crazy sometimes.

Breakfast in the Durham kitchen

And, as the saying goes--but wait, there's more.  To be continued . . . .