Where did your cat come from?  A shelter, a friend, a breeder?
Tell us what you know about your cat's provenance.  Discussions
of appearance and character are welcomed as well.

43 responses total.

My 17-year-old moggie cat Little Bit was inherited from
the previous occupant of the apartment I rented in 1984.  I
actually knew the guy slightly, and he knew I was going to 
take the apartment, and asked if I would keep the cat,
who was about a year and a half old at the time.  She was
terribly lonely and neurotic when I finally occupied the 
place, since it had been empty for two weeks, and she had 
been fed daily by the landlord, but not petted very much.
Legend has it that she was found as a kitten in a snowdrift,
but I've never been able to confirm that story.  Her name
when I got her was Princess Little Bit, but I dropped the
Princess right away.

Our 3-and-a-half year old black Siberian cat Katya was
bought from a breeder at a cat show in March of 1997,
when she was a year old.  The breeder gave us a discount,
since she has a little white mark on her chest, and I think
also because she was already so old.  She still looked like
a kitten, though, since Siberians grow quite slowly to
maturity.  I would have guessed she was nine months at the 
time, if I didn't know her birthday.  Ken and I had been
talking about getting another black cat for several years, 
since Ken's old black cat had died, and we had also 
discussed a Maine Coone, since we had also had one of those
die on us.  Well, Siberians look a *lot* like Maine
Coones, and here we had stumbled upon a black one as well,
and she was incredibly sweet to boot, so we impulsively
bought her on the spot.

Scott M. Evil was actually procured through a newspaper advertisement for free
kittens.  I was oringally looking for a black female cat, but it was love at
first sight.

He has a good disposition so far, seems to love me alot and a major cuddle
slut.  What more could you ask in a cat.

Lumpy Dave came from a litter born in the student house I used to live in.
I wasn't originally planning on taking a cat, but the person who had gotten
dibs on Dave was proving pretty negligent as a pet owner.

Years later when I finally had my own house, I added Conan (the "big baby"
aka "wild thing" aka "conehead") from the local shelter.

Harlis was a shelter cat. He'd been there for two months, turned in by a 
good samaritan who had found him. When I walked in the cat area, I put 
my hand up to his cage and he immediately rubbed against it. I looked 
around at the other cats, most of whom seemed frightened (they were all 
a little agitated from hearing dogs bark all day). I asked to see 
Harlis, who at the time was just known as "Cat: Shorthair: MA" (male 
altered!). He may have been someone's pet because he arrived at the 
shelter fixed.

We took him out of the cage, and while he was apprehensive, he didn't 
hiss or fight back. He just walked around. I decided he'd be the one. 
The shelter people were sad to see him go; one guy said he'd let him 
walk around the front desk during the weekends.

I took him to the vet immediately for his shots. He had a fever and the 
vet suspected FIV. I began to cry, thinking he was a goner and I'd have 
to take him back to the shelter. They did a test and it turned out he 
was just overexcited and not sick. He hid under the bed and didn't come 
out until that night. He stared at me with his ears back and I thought 
"Ack, I've adopted the Cujo of cats!". Then he walked up and plopped 
himself down on my lap. :) 

I'll have had him 3 years in February, and he's still the best cat on 
earth :)

Sidney is an adoptee from the Humane Society.  He was a stray, found
wandering in a trailer park.  Basically he adopted us, climbing the
door of the cage trying to get to us when we went to adopt a cat.
One of the most easygoing affectionate people-oriented cats it's
been my pleasure to encounter.  Still acts like the kitten he was
when we adopted him, although he's six years old now.

My family has always gotten shelter cats, and they've always been wonderful.
Maybe we've been lucky, but we've manged to avoid the traumatized / sickly
/ crazy ones.

Tonchi, our calico cat, is 11 years old now.  We got her from the Humane
Society, and like remmers' and beeswing's cats picked them out, Tonchi pretty
much picked us out. As we looked in the cage, she stretched out her paw to us.

The card on the cage said that her name was Tammy Faye.  Undoubtedly she was
named after the highly-cosmetized wife of a preacher who was much in the news
then.  The first thing we did was change her name to Tonchi, which is the word
Guadalajarans use for "kitty."

It's often said of calicos that they have a sweet disposition.  Tonchi is very
sweet with adults, but she's not good with children or short people.  She's
taken swipes at young nephews and nieces, as well as my sister (who's just shy
of 5 feet tall) and my wife's aunt who is even shorter.

Overall, though, we're pretty happy she chose us.

Just looked at the bottom of my "cat"  Made in Taiwan.

(the only cat I have is the imatation beanie baby that's sitting on top 
of my monitor)

Mary Wilson's first cat came from a 'cat store' in Beverly, IL. after an
unsuccessful attempt to 'adopt' one from the local  chicagoland  pound -
too much paperwork and you had to attend classes on 'adoption' and you
had to be 'screenws'  to see if you were 'appropriate' and it cost more
- for crying out loud its a fucking cat, I can make a fur coat out of a
couple hundred of it!  Anyway, after convincing her that the 500.00
purebred siamese kitten with papers was not the route to go we ended up
with a 'tiger' mut.  Named 'go' which is mandarin for 'dog' and is the
usual evocative of an young mandarin for any small 4-legged furry
animal.  Cost 6 bucks.

(You can adopt a "crack hoe's" baby for less hassle in chicagoland
(unless you are a white alderman and the husband of a white judge) than
you get when you try to pick a kitten up at the pound.)

The first of our current group, Paws, was acquired two days before 
Christmas a number of years ago.  She was a shy calico, and the family 
that was taking care of her didn't really know her.  Apparently, she 
had been found as a stray at the man's office, well pregnant, and they 
had given away her litter and needed to get rid of her.  We took her 
home, and after a couple of days of restricting herself to one room of 
the house, she began climbing the christmas tree, and the rest is 
history.  She is easily the wildest, smartest, most evil animal I have 
ever known.  She manipulates like nothing else, even though she's 
mellowed over the years.

The second, and oldest, is Coffee, who we picked up a year or so 
later.  She's a lapcat.  She and paws didn't get along well at all at 
first, and we thought we might have to give her back, but she grew on 
us.  She's my kind of color, black.   

The idiot, Duey (short for the French "Duve," which means fuzz) 
appeared one weekend after I had been out of the house, readily named 
and litterbox trained.  Our only kitten, he was stored in the spacious 
upstairs bathroom adjoining my sister's bedroom where he could be fed 
and cared for in safety from the big girls.  Videos from the period 
prove that we weren't above throwing him into the frying pan and 
letting Paws play with him.  In retrospect, she was fairly gentle.  
They fight a considerable amount more these days.

I don't know what I'd do without them.

Mary Wilson's second cat was "Mrs. Bigglesworth" who was the 12 year old
or so 'disposal' of a neighbor's neighbor's daughter's ex-roomate who
abandoned it and moved back to NYC.  Anyway the night before "Mrs. B"
was to be sent to the chicagoland 'pound' we agreed to 'adopt' her.  
'Go' (a cat named dog) objected and as 'dog' had been 'declawed' and
"Mrs. B" had not (named "Mrs. Biggelsworth" by Mary Wilson and the
reference is left to the reader to either understand or wonder about),
"Mrs. B." won that encounter and was bannished to the upstairs apt. of
Arnoldt the German Footbal (soccer) Coach  who promply 'fell in love'
even though the INS was questioning his status as his student visa had
expired about 5 years ago (those INS guys are so efficient it scares
one....

"Mrs. Bigglesworth" is a purebred but spayed female siamese that is
incredibly friendly with children - Mary Wilson carries her around like
the _Peanuts_ cartoon character (nobody knows that reference for sure).

And, after the initial cost of making sure she/it had all her shots she
was 'declawed'.  Seems "Mrs. B." was slightly neurotic (as are most
siamese cats) and was lonely on account Arnoldt and most everybody else
in the houshold either worked or was going to school.  Seems she would
sometimes 'throw up' her food (Arnoldt is a German and by defintition a
neatness freak and I can see how this might bother him).  After the
lawsuit where our neighbor's neighbor's daughter's ex-roomate attempted
to get the cat back after abandoning it for about a year (we offered to
give the cat back for simply the cost of the 'vet' bills) and Arnoldt
was finally deported we had the cat 'put down' (drawing the line at the
cat's Dr's opinion that a CATSCAN (costs less for cats than humans for
some reason even though it uses exactly the same machine) would reveal
the 'cause' of the cat's illness)).

Bottom line, get your cat at a pet store, its cheaper and there is some
corporate entity to sue if the cat scratches you.

2)  No good deed ever ever goes unpunished.

3)  The INS like any other government agency is a 'slow fuck'.  It may
be slow but you are gonna get fucked in the long run.

Oh, forgot to mention, the now three thousand dollar or more cat was
burried in the front 4x6' 'lawn' where nai-nai raises various chinese
herbs and vegitables, onions, tomatoes and sweet corn.  So at least we
get to eat better as a result.

I got Gomez in August of '98 from a friend of mine.  He and his wife had
discovered this starving, weak, ear-mite ridden little cat near their
apartment.  He couldn't even run from them.  So, they nursed him back to
health and gave him to me.  He's been my cuddly slut-kitty ever since.

Katie announced that she had kittens available, so at the end of July this
year, I brought home a black female kitten.  We named her (what else?)
Morticia.  They both get along very well, Gomez is teaching her how to play
fetch (his favorite game), and they enjoy playing tag when one of us is trying
to walk down the hallway.

'cat' is rather tasty. It is served in many korean restaurants.

Tess came to our back doorwall eleven years ago
and wouldn't stop meowing at us.  It was early
March, miserable cold wet weather.  She looked
as if she'd been living outside for a long time.
Scrawny, pathetic animal.  The kids insisted that
we take her in.  I told them we'd take her to the
local vet and have her tested for feline leukemia
virus; if she wasn't infected, we'd adopt her.
The next day, the vet told us the good news and
bad news: Tess wasn't infected with FLV, and she
was pregnant.  "But Dad, you said if she wasn't
infected..."  So, we took her in for good.  She
had three kittens a few weeks later, all of whom 
we found homes for in our neighbohood.  They're 
all still alive and well, as is Tess.  Tess was
the name my daughter selected for her.

Winston came from The Age of Aquarium pet shop.  My son was in King School
and I had taken on the duties of fish tank caretaker.  I was at the pet
store to buy some aquarium supplies when I walked by a cage holding a
number of very tiny kittens.  One in particular, looked too sad for words.
He was extremely thin and way too tiny to be away from mom, his eyes were
running goo, his ears held lots of crunch black stuff, and fleas were
running around his hind end in plain view.  But his eyes locked onto mine
and he never looked away.  Not for a moment. 

I paid the $40 on the spot and a whole lot more in vet bills over the
next 3 or 4 months to get rid of the malnutrition, dehydration, intestinal
parasites, ear mites and fleas.  I bulked him up on liver Gerber baby
food.  And in return he has been a respected friend for the past 15 years. 

I still have no defense for that eye contact thing he does so well.

  re #13:  The Peanuts character is "Frieda"..  Does MW have "naturally
           curly hair"?

I was going to write more about my beeyootiful cat, but he just used the 
litter box and hence stunk up the entire apartment. 

Pleh.

My cats, Fido and Spot, came to Grand Rapids from Miami, Florida.  They were
free to a good home material with their litter mates until their owner, the
beautiful maria Bascuas, started to suspect that the people picking cats from
the litter were planning to use them in Santaria rites.

My other cats, Lady and Midi, came into my house with my marriage to my kind
and loving wife, who lost interestt in her pets after they exceeded the kitten
stage.  (I'm keeping my fingers crossed that the same won't happend to me.)

My Sasha came to me from the Midland County Animal Control.  She and her
three sisters were found at about 4 weeks old, and their picture was put
into the paper.  My brother and I went to the office'just to look' (I knew
I would be taking one home, I brought a kittky carrier with me).  Sasha's
two grey and white sisters were loud, obnoxious and kept biting hard on my
fingers.  She was quite and just licked them, the fourth kitten wouldn't come
near me.  So I took Sasha home (I said 'how about the name Sasha' and that
was it...) and found out that yes, the little darling did cry... a lot... she
still hates to be too far from me.  So while she's not much of a lap sitter
yet (I have hopes, more and more she comes begging for attention and crawls
all over my lap purrring her lil heart out) she insists on being in the same
room with me... watching me... <grins>

My roommate got Willoughby from the Huron Humane Society... He was two and
a half, but looked healthy.  His original name was Teal... we didn't like
that... <laughs>  The Humane Society said a vet looked at him and he was
perfectly healty- eyes, ears, nose clean.  So we take him to the vet... Three
different types of ear infections- two bacterial and one yeast... Given that
his first few weeks with us involved being forcibly held down and having his
ears scrubbed- it's amazing that he's the slut he is.  Anyone who comes over
to my apt. now meets Mr. Willoughby and must love him up.

(linked to the pets conf... if you're enjoying this item, come to pets and
see what else we can talk about. :) )

Re #19:  I wish pet stores wouldn't sell puppies and kittens.
It's a really hostile environment for them.  And they are 
usually yanked awway from mom too soon.

Selling animals in that kind of condition (#19) should be good for a
4-digit fine or some jail time.

I dislike pet stores altogether, really. It makes no sense to get them 
from a store when shelters are so overcrowded with animals. That's why I 
get my cat food and supplies from Petco, because they don't add to the 
problem by selling pets. 

Pet stores sell pets because people will buy pets in pet stores.  If you see
a pet in a pet store and buy it to get it out of there, you're just giving
the pet stores more of an incentive to "stock" more pets.  If noboy bought
pets from pet stores, pet stores wouldn't sell pets.

Note that I have no first hand knowledge of the condition dogs and cats are
kept in in pet stores, so I'll leave it up to others here to decide whether
selling pets in pet stores is something that should be encouraged or not.

I remember the market in a town in Southern France where I spent a few summers
as a teenager.  Every week, one of the people at the market would have a goat
there, on a leash, tied to their stand.  They were selling boxes of goat food,
which people could feed to the goat.  The sign on the booth said that if
people didn't buy goat food from them and feed the goat, the goat wouldn't
eat.  Lots of people seemed to either feel sorry for the goat or think this
was a neat idea, becaue people were buying goat food and feeding the goat.
It struck me as either cruelty or extortion, depending on to what extent the
people were really going to let their goat starve if people didn't buy food
for it.

I agree, Steve, paying for the kitten only encouraged continued
neglect and did nothing to solve the bigger problem.  It was
a moment of emotional weakness.  I couldn't help myself.  I'll
do better next time.  (I'm not being sarcastic.)

I think I would have done exactly what Mary did in her situation. There 
is no way I could live with myself if I'd left a kitten in that 
predicament when I knew I could have stopped it. Especially if it had 
locked eyes with me like that. I'd have melted. :)

Maybe it's the notion of selling pets as a product that irritates me. 
They're not decorative items; they're living beings with their own 
personalities and needs. The idea of them being on display like that is 
bothersome to me. Plus what happens to the animals who don't sell? 

As I type this, Harlis is curled by my feet. What a sweetie. :)

I bought a kitten from a store called "Dr. X" in some mall.
After a few days at home, I noticed that it didn't eat so my dad took it to
the vet and we found out that it had some parasite, it died a few days later.
 :(

I've noticed that a lot of per stores these days don't have kittens and
puppies- just fish and rodents, maybe lizards and amphibians.  This
is good in my mind.  The last time I was at a pet store that sold cats
I was appalled to see that everyone of the cats had running eyes and
noses. :(

Dogs and cats make for a very unstable product.  I'd guess that not too many
stores sell them just for that reason.  Ferrets are a bit different, since
apparently you can't just let them breed (at least in Michigan, where I think
ferrets must be neutered before sale).

Where did the cats come from....
 
Wow.  I could probably write 180 lines on that, just like item 53.
(After the fact: 259, not including this note!  Wow!)
 
I'll omit the accounting of the ones who passed on before I had
any recollection of them, or the ones which went off with my
sister.  The rest are worth enough text for three responses.
 
Digger:  He was the runt of a litter at a cat breeder somewhere in
greater Ann Arbor.  When my parents got him, the breeder took him
from his cage, sprayed some Raid into a pan, wiped a Q-tip into it
and started daubing after fleas!  After this high-tech louse
removal, he came home.  From the runt of the litter he became quite
large; at one point he was 14 pounds.
 
He was a full-blooded Siamese, though not as highly bred as a show
cat.  He had the distinctive Siamese voice, deep and throaty.  If
he got into an altercation, the entire neighborhood knew exactly
who was involved.  I can still do the Siamese battle growl to this
day.  After my parents bought their house, he immediately endeared
himself to the history professor next door by snacking on the
chipmunks which had mistaken his garden for a salad bar.  Digger
was a terror to bluejays and knew his people intimately, but to
the end of his days he was clueless about how leashes tangle.
He was always ready with a friendly greeting and loved everyone;
he would make the rounds of the bedrooms many nights, collecting
warm spots and petting.
 
Old age eventually caught up with him, slowed him down, took the
spring out of his step and the calculation from his gaze, but it
never took his spirit or his purr.  Whatever took him made it
harder and harder for him to move; in his final days we carried
him to the litter and fed him broth with an eyedropper.  Digger
died in the wee hours of the morning one Halloween at the ripe
old age of 19.  Sometimes I still miss him.
 
Chloe was a few years younger than Digger, replacing another Siamese
who died before I was old enough to remember.  She was a higher bred
cat, nearly show quality, but she was very high-strung and not nearly
as friendly as her companion.  She was rather neurotic, sort of a
Woody Allen of cats, and got nicknamed Miss Persnickety by my mother
for her habits about food, litter, and every little thing; if it
wasn't *just so*, she'd get revenge somehow.  (She was my sister's
favorite.  Go figure.)
 
I was at the University and called my folks one day to find out that
she was dead; she had gone seriously downhill and she made a final
trip to the vet.  She was 17, I think.  My sister insisted upon her
being buried in a pet cemetary; my father humored her.
 
Nicky (Nicholas something something Tahini Cage was his full name after
two branches of the family got into it) was a devastatingly cute little
Burmese kitten when we got him.  He came from a breeder but he was
forever removed from the ranks of show cats because of the white spot
on his chest, so he became "just a pet".  He came home for Christmas
and was so tiny he fit in my hand; not long thereafter, we found him
sleeping in a winter hat of my father's, and took a picture that we
have to this day.  He became a BIG cat, but very much a people cat.  If
he was roaming the neighborhood, all you'd have to do is stand on the
patio and yell "Nicky Nick!  Here kitty kitty kitty kitty!" and within
seconds there would be a brown streak which would fly across the yard
and through the air, materializing into a purr-pot wondering what was
for dinner. 
 
Nicky wasn't too smart, but he was extremely friendly and funny.  One
day I was mowing the lawn with the electric and he happened to step
into a loop of the cord.  I yanked the cord just to tease him, and when
it hit his feet he launched vertically about three feet from a standing
posture!  Vertical maneuvers were always his forte; his favorite hideout
for years was on top of the refrigerator.
 
After my grandfather's decline and death, he became my grandmother's
cat and kept her company.  She smoked heavily which accelerated her
own ailments and was not much good for him either.  When she could no
longer live by herself he came back to us.  Whether it was from the
smoke or genetic infirmity or whatever, he came down with an ailment
that I seem to recall was pancreatitis or the like; he was gone in
a few days.  He only made it to 14.
 
Shortly before Nicky's premature end, my brother acquired a kitten
from a "free to good home" offer.  She was a tiny tiger-striped longhair,
with blue eyes and an attitude.  Initially she was Blanche, and went
through a number of names as he searched for one which suited her.
For a while she would stick to anything you'd put her on, and we called
her Velcro.  Eventually my brother decided that she was a Russian ghetto
cat (don't ask me!) and dubbed her Natasha, which stuck.  She also got
called "Miss Fuzzbutt", "Pestiferous Brat-cat", "Dingleberry queen" and
a host of other nicknames.
 
She went through a phase when you couldn't keep her off the roof of
the house (I'm serious).  She would climb the maple tree next to it,
jump onto the roof of the porch, and have the run of the roof of the
house.  A few times she let us coax her down onto an awning where we
could lift her off by hand, but not long after she refused.  We
eventually found out how she was getting down:  she was leaping from
the porch roof some five feet horizontally to a skinny branch on the
same maple tree (not the one she used to climb and leap down to the
roof), which she would hit and cling to like glue.  After making the
grab she would somehow climb to the top of this 1-1/2" near-broomstick
and, lashing her tail back and forth for balance like a squirrel, make
her way to the main trunk.  It was an amazing sight and she insisted
upon doing it herself; very much the child going for independence.
 
She used her Velcro capabilities well.  Many was the time that my
brother and I would hear a loud BANG! at the back door.  We'd go to
the door and open it. to find a little cat face peering in at us at
almost eye-level, claws holding her tight to the screen of the door
after her leap.  Ignoring her when she did this was impossible, and
she exploited that fact shamelessly.
 
Natasha has always been a gourmet.  Dry cat food has rarely passed
muster with her, and even canned must be high quality.  It isn't
for nothing that I mention chicken, turkey and roast beef as her
favorites in my .plan.
 
Natasha is somewhat neurotic as well.  Maybe it's because I teased her
when she was being crabby, but for years she would hiss for no reason
at all.  She hated being petted anywhere near her tail, and touching
her tail would immediately get a growl and a counterattack.  She was
never fast enough to get me if I fought her on two fronts (one hand
from each direction) and she'd run off growling and hissing.
 
She did that until this summer.  Maybe it was because I visited when
my brother was working and cooked extra chicken just for the cats,
which she really appreciated.  Maybe she was just losing the energy
needed to fight.  But Natasha stopped growling at me, stopped hissing,
stopped taking care of herself.  Her long fur, always a haven for burrs
that she'd pick up whenever she went out, has huge mats now.
 
My brother told me that she'd been diagnosed with an abdominal tumor.
I hear she's not eating very much now, and her belly is getting larger
as her strength declines.  She can't get onto a bed any longer without
using her claws.  She has her good days and her bad days.  We're hoping
she'll make it to Thanksgiving for one last get-together with company
and turkey, but she might not last the week.
 
After Nicky died, my brother and my mother went to the Humane Society.
One particular calico kept poking her paw out of the cage, wanting to
be petted.  She came home with them.  Being striped in various colors
she was obviously Agate, Aggie for short, Agata Crystal to me when I
felt like punning.  Aggie was nearly adult when we got her, and had
no claws.  Her owners had been on welfare in the country and had not
been able to afford cat food; she did not eat well enough on table
scraps to get by, so they gave her up.  When we got her she was an
extremely affectionate pussycat, a very endearing beggar and a
surprisingly capable huntress.
 
She was dubbed "Aggie the Tramp" by my father because she liked to
stay out all night.  Often was the time I would hear something
squeaking in the yard and follow my ears until I could make out a
shape in the dimness.  Reaching down, I'd find a purring feline
holding some hapless rodent beneath her paws.  She always kept them
for herself, figuring that we didn't need feeding.  When my mother
built the summer house, Aggie would disappear there for days at a
time, coming in for an occasional snack and some water and going
back into the tall grass for more fun.  When we found evidence of
her expeditions it was usually a disgusting little mound of mouse
guts.  That's all we ever found; she gutted her mice, but ate
everything else.  That's one smart cat, because she never got worms
despite her summer diet of wild game.
 
Aggie got a cataract in her left eye some years ago, which didn't slow
her down too much.  Contention with a young, feisty, very territorial
cat was much harder on her; she spent most of two summers nearly
confined to a single room.  After that she was never the same.  She
came down with a kidney ailment which interferes with her electrolyte
balances.  This spring she went up to the summer house and nobody
expected her to return.  She surprised everyone; she improved over
the summer and now the Ann Arbor vet says she may go for another
year.  She's 17, skin and bones, blind on the left, but still one of
the happiest, most affectionate cats you'll ever meet.  A few months
ago we were saying that sweet Aggie would be gone long before Miss
PIss & Vinegar Natasha.  She has made us eat our words.
 
Then there is Inky.  Inky nearly didn't survive her first encounter
with our clan, several years ago.  Natasha had had a couple of
encounters with a feral black and white cat, which was also eating
most of the rabbits and other wildlife.  My brother, always protective
of our animals, was on the watch for this cat and kept an airgun ready
if he got a chance to remove the threat.  One day he heard a fight
between Natasha and an intruder.  Taking the airgun, he headed for
the scene and drew a bead on the stranger... but noticed that it was
all black.  He held his fire and waded into the fray instead.  Natasha
broke and ran, and the stranger paused, walked up to him and looked up
as if to say, "You going to pet me?".  And so Inky adopted us.
 
Inky came to us with a collar, but no identification.  She was starving,
perhaps a day or two from death when my brother took her in, but her
nipples were full.  The story we pieced together is that she'd been
abandoned, pregnant, and had her kittens beneath the outside deck of
a restaurant where people fed her; eventually people took the kittens
for pets but nobody wanted her.  Somehow she found her way across a
bridge and through several miles of woods and fields before she found
the house.  That was her salvation.
 
She liked to use her claws too much, so she lost those along with
her worms and the bits that got her abandoned in the first place.
(Not my doing.)  But this didn't stop her at all.  Natasha held her
own despite her age with her own set of stilletos, but Aggie was
defenseless against Inky's youthful vigor and territoriality.  Inky
dominated the house and grounds both, and couldn't be kept in; if
she wanted out, she'd break out.
 
Inky thought she was a dog.  She followed my brother around and fetched
things.  One day he was going for a kayak ride and she just got on it
and rode around.  Maybe she thought that she was a black lab, I dunno...
 
She was quite friendly and would come when called, but nipped when she
was petted anyplace she didn't like.  She was particularly sensitive
about a spot on the middle of her back.  We have some suspicions why.
One day she came back to the house dragging her hind quarters, pulling
herself with her front legs.  My mother wrapped her in a towel for
protection and took her to the vet, fearing the worst.  At the vet she
got out of the towel and walked around like she'd never been better;
the vet couldn't find anything wrong with her.  We think something
had frightened her, maybe grabbed her but lost its hold.  Something big.
 
Inky roamed up and down the lane at her pleasure, and came in
when it suited her.  I was visiting a good half-mile away with
my mother and Inky showed up at the door of the house, visiting
too!  We couldn't let her in because she completely outclassed
the kitten in residence, but I said hi to her before she moseyed
on.  I wondered how she was going to surprise us next.
 
September 2, 1998, about 11:30 PM, we heard something scream.  It
sounded like a cat, but I'd never heard one scream like that before
and I hope I never do again.  Amid a chorus of yips, the scream 
built, rose to a height that made my hair stand on end, and it died.
Then there was silence, only the wind blowing in the trees.  My
brother and I immediately started calling "Inky!  Inky!" and went
out with flashlights to find the source.  We discovered nothing.
The next day I checked again, in daylight.  I found some deer
droppings and tracks, but no corpse, no hair, no blood, no collar,
nothing.  Yet Inky did not come home.
 
Five days later we found half a jawbone and part of a femur next
to a fox den in a nearby orchard.  Not raccoon, not opossum, and
they matched the sizes of our cats almost exactly.  The bones
now lie beneath a stone, marked "Inky   - 9/2/1998".
 
After Inky disappeared, Natasha became very interested in going
out.  She started hunting again, bringing home mice that we had
to throw out.  But fall came and Natasha stopped looking for her
friend, accepting finally that she was gone.  And my brother,
seeing that Natasha was lonely, got her a new companion.
 
The last cat in the list is Popel (German for "booger").  Popel
is a charity cat, purchased for a donation toward having mama-cat
fixed.  He's an orange and white longhair tiger, now about a year
old, and twice Natasha's size.  He likes to play, but he's very
shy and will run away from strange people or loud noises.  He's
picked up some of Natasha's bad habits, like hissing at people
for no apparent reason.  He's such a wuss that he hisses almost
inaudibly and couldn't intimidate a fly!  Unlike Aggie, he's not
a lap-slut but a flirt; he'll come when invited, take a few
strokes, and mosey off again.
 
My brother is talking about getting another cat, to keep Popel
company after Natasha is gone.  Who knows what that one will be!

Natasha's screen climbing (leaping) reminds me of my parent's cat, except
he would climb the screen- not leap up onto it.  It was rather disturbing 
to be calmly eating dinner with the family, and look over and see glowing 
eyes peering in from outside at about human height...  Now adays, the dog
has a rope with a metal clip that gets attached to her collar whenever
she goes out (the back yard is fenced in, but the dog can easily manage
it.).  The rope hangs from the sliding glass door on the outside and when
the cat wants to be let in he will smack the metal part against the
window, essentially knocking on the door to be let in. <grins>

yggdrasil <iggy for short> is a female tabby.
we got her from an ad in the newspaper..free to good home.
i went intending to get a male orange kitten, but we
didnt hit it off. hubby saw a tiny, sickly female kitten and picked it up.
they bonded instantly..  what could i do?
she needed a lot of medical care, and since i worked in a vet
clinic, all her care was free.  this was our first cat together.
she is healthy now, and has had plenty of tests and a few
surgeries. still, i have the sense that something is still
wrong with her.
mel-rakki <melly> was brought into the
clinic where i worked when she was 6-9 months old. she had been
squished by a car, and had a lot of internal injuried.
she really grew on me as i nursed her. she was a stray when she
was brought in. i adopted her. she is pretty bonded with me.
everywhere i go, she goes. when i go to sleep, she lays her
head on my pillow and snuggles down under the covers.

hubby and i brought them to seattle with us when we moved here.

melly has a 'pica', and eats or licks everything she can.
pillows, blankets, couches, newspapers, tv remote control..etc

iggy likes to be bopped with an inflatable 'scream' doll while
we hum the hawaii-five-o theme song.

        iggy has you trained real well.  Maybe you could take the
'scream' doll act on the Confuse-A-Cat tour?

I like iggy's pet's names. :)

Harlis likes for me to sing "You are my sunshine" to him. He purrs like 
mad. He especially likes the "You'll never know just how much I love 
you" line. 

(I have also heard it was "You'll never know, dear, how much I love 
you" but I learned it the other way and I like that better.)

The tales <heh heh> of Rick O'Shea and Her Grace, the Thunder of BuckShot 
have been told in the "pets" conf. Have a look...

- Backtalk version 1.3.30 - Copyright 1996-2006, Jan Wolter and Steve Weiss