Whoever said cats were domesticated was wrong. Flat out wrong. My wife, Katie, and I live with feral animals. They fight, they stalk, and they are messy. Cats are not the fastidious creatures some assume them to be. No. They aren't.
Let me introduce Franklynn. He is the oldest at about 12 years old. We always use"about" when we're talking about a cat's age, because unless we witness the birth, which we haven't ever, there's no way to tell the exact age. So, we use the first time the cat has visited the vet as a birth date and add as many years as the vet can guess to his or her age.
|Franklynn, the pretty boy|
|Franklynn ... Really!|
The next three have a background. A story. Two years ago, we lived in a different place. The woman in front of us had three cats who ran around the property freely. The oldest one, Tulip, was an indoor cat until the owner got a leather couch. The cat was set out. The owner fed her and gave her a little shelter on a screened-in porch. Mr. Jingles came one day as a youngster, and Tangerine, also a youngster, soon followed.
About two years ago, the owner came to us and told us that her trailer had mold. She needed to get a new trailer. She asked us if we could take the cats for a month or two, which is the time that it would take to get a new trailer in place. She assured us that she would help with expenses. Two months came and went. We sent her copies of our expenses — vet bills and food — and she said she couldn't pay it and relinquished the cats to us. We didn't want them, but we couldn't let them go back to her either. Even in southeastern North Carolina it gets cold. We sneaked them into our house when we lived there, whether it was cold or hot or mild. We grew to love them, and we wanted to care for them. When they came to live with us permanently, we had a total of eight cats.
|Bjorn, formerly known as Mr. Jingles|
This is Bjorn Catspurrski. He is a Swedish/Polish/American Shorthair and proud of it. He is Franklynn's playmate, although he gets along with everyone. He is about four. He hugs. He comes to the hand for a pat, then he swings his rear end around to make contact with the leg. Hugs! We convinced his previous owner to neuter him. She did, and he stayed closer to home.
|Tangerine, aka Tangy|
|Tangy: This young fella needs to learn how to loosen up.|
This is our current clowder. We are working on attrition — again! It's difficult to travel far or for long periods of time when we need to get a cat sitter and hope they don't kill each other.
Oh! The old neighbor never did upgrade her living conditions, and it's two years later.
If you have a cat story, put it in the comments.
From Franklynn to Tangerine...and everything in between...