Confession #11: Cat Lady Problems (1 Through 5)

I got 99 problems......and Myrtle is ALL of them. 

In no particular order:

1. Dry winter air.
When you were a kid, did you ever take a balloon and rub it on the carpet and then have fun sticking it to your clothes, or use it to make your hair stand on end?

A cat in winter seems to have the same properties of said balloon.

The other day I had to peel Myrtle off my pants. It was as if each fine hair on her body became a tentacle, ruthlessly grasping fibers of my clothing. The crackle of electricity momentarily silenced Myrtle's hisses of displeasure. I'm fairly certain we generated enough wattage to light a few lamps.

I'm ready to slather that cat in some hydrating lotion. Otherwise, I may show up to work one of these days wearing Myrtle- via the magic that is static cling.

2. Thievery and War Games.
I spend literally HUNDREDS of cents on ear plugs. Myrtle loves to steal them from my night stand and hide them. Until the night comes. And then she hunts them. Loudly. Crashing through the apartment, bouncing off the walls, and howling her fierce feline battle cry. I'm also pretty sure these ear plugs must be some kind of strange living organisms to put up such a fight. And......apparently they breed like rabbits. Having learned my lesson, I keep a pair of ear plugs in a case so Myrtle can't get to them, but I STILL find them all over the place. I throw them away, but they keep showing up....

3. Cat "Empty".
I woke up one morning to Myrtle meowing loudly at the door. Like, really pathetically. As in the echoing wails were trailing off into shaky, shuddering little sobs. Her wee paws reaching, beseechingly, under the door, searching for anyone, ANYONE, who would come to her aid.

"MRRROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOWWWWWWwwwwww...mew...m-m-m-mew..."

I opened the door and she streaked in, desperately performing several figure eights around my feet. Then, she trotted down the hallway, stopped, looked back. . ."Mew?"

She led me to where the food is. Myrtle sat in front of the bowl, looked up at me, and let out one more big, "MRRRRROOOOOOOWWWWW!" This one more accusing. As in, "I'm starving!! I can't believe you let me go this long without sustenance. Look at this travesty. . . an EMPTY BOWL. . .as empty as your soul, human!"

I looked at the travesty. The "empty" bowl. The bowl was filled to the brim with a ring of food. During the night, she had eaten the middle out of the bowl. And that, my friends, is the definition of cat "empty."

4. Pain.
Myrtle has a Brillo pad tongue she occasionally tries to bathe me with. She seems to think human skin is not clean until she has reached a layer of new skin cells. She also possesses a diabolical knowledge of human anatomy. Especially during the cold, dark, pre-dawn hours. Jump on the kidney. Pounce on the solar plexus. Knead the bladder. .Then it's, "Hey, as long as you're up. . .feed me, pet me, don't pet me, stare at the wall with me, turn on the computer so I can sit on the keyboard. . .NOW." Hiss. Swat.

5. Sneak Attacks.
To prevent sneak attacks from maniacs hiding in the bathroom, I rarely keep the shower curtain closed. However, I made the nearly fatal mistake of pulling it closed one night, and in a fit of movie girl idiocy, I went to investigate strange noises. As I parted the curtain a hissing, clawing maniac came leaping at me. I am now scarred for life. Physically and emotionally. Darn you, Myrtle! Darn you to heck!!!!!

Make no mistake, Myrtle is a wonderful cat. And I fearlove her so much. Myrtle is an adorevil cat. (Thanks to my friend T for coming up with the term "adorevil." There aren't words in the English language to describe Myrtle, so we must create new ones. And, yes, those are my kitty cat jammies. They are freakin awesome, are they not?) 

I will be sharing more Cat Lady Problems in future posts. 

But right now I need to go take care of a pressing Myrtle-related situation.

Confession #9: The Cat Lady Dates....Or Not. I Am Selective.

Quitting singledom for love and companionship is great and all, but sometimes I want to quit being single just so I don't have to be single and deal with dating. It is a lot of work. A lot of awkward, awkward work. 

I know that holds true for most single people. 

But....

Think first dates are awkward? Try being a cat lady on a first date. 

Things always start off so well....and then....

Man: So, tell me a little more about yourself. Hobbies? Interests?

Me: Well, I love to read. Mostly mysteries. And Jane Austen. And Harry Potter.

Man: My dear lady, I ardently admire and love Harry Potter books. 

Me: You are freakin awesome. 

Man: Thank you.

Me: I also love animals. I have a giant Golden Retriever.

Man: Dogs are cool. Especially big dogs. Any dog less than 50 pounds isn't even a real dog.

Me: Oh, my gosh! I always tell people the same thing! Let's see....what else? Oh, I have cats.

Man: You have a cat?

Me: No, I have cats. Catssssssss.

Man: How many? Two?

Me: Uh, more.

Man: Three?

Me: *cough* More.

Man: What? Like, ten?

Me: No, no, I'm not a crazy cat lady. Four. Just four cats. Only four.

This is the critical juncture of this cat lady's first date. Man's response to my response to The Question: How many cats do you have? 

This will determine if there is any future for Man and me.

Examples of "No Future" responses:

Pained silence.

"Uh, um, wow, uh. Sooooooo....look at the time."

"I'm allergic to cats."

"Cats are evil."

Examples of "There will probably be a 2nd date" responses:

"I'm cool with that. Four isn't even that many."

"Do you want to see some funny cat memes?"

"Hey, I've got four cats, too! We could totally Brady Bunch this thing."

"Cats are evil- we should go look at some kittens after dinner."

Now, should we continue courting, Man will need to understand a few more things. 

-If I have fixed him a delicious meal and he happens upon a random cat hair, he should calmly remove it and keep eating. Or eat it and experience cat-like stealth and an enormous sense of superiority for the next 24-hours. You are what you eat.

-Should we be cuddled on the couch watching Harry Potter movies and the phone rings or the pan of brownies in the oven finishes baking, the person with the least amount of cats in his or her lap is responsible for getting up.

-Should Man find that a cat has puked on his shoe, the only acceptable response is to mutter, "Jerk cat," and ask for a paper towel. Cat puke happens.

-Man must learn that there is NO substituting of the established brands of kibble and litter. NONE. Any deviation will result in excessive complaining and severe punishment. From the cats. Not me. 

-Man must master the delicate- and somewhat dangerous- art of cat petting.

-In direct relation to the aforementioned, Man must have a high threshold of pain.

And, finally....

-Man must lovingly temper my crazy cat lady tendencies OR lovingly go all out and join me. We could be one of those Hollywood-type power couples, like Brangelina- adopting cats from all over the world. We would be amazing. Or crazy. 

We would be cramazing. 

But, before all this cramazingness can happen, I guess I just need to keep slogging through the awkwardness of dating to find Man. Not that I'm in a huge rush to run out and get married or anything. In spite of the awkward dating parts, being single is fun, too.

On the other hand, my next birthday officially puts me closer to 40 than 30. I don't know if I can handle that many cats on my own....

Confession #8: I Didn't Vote in the Last (Cat) Election

*This post is rated PG-13, due to violence, cat swears, mild cat sensuality, and scenes of intense melodrama.

The world of cat politics is a medieval morass of plots, intrigues, secret alliances, and, yes, even seductions.

I always thought Myrtle was just a name. But in this household, it’s much, much more. It’s a title.

One of these days I’m going to walk into my living room and find a cat triumphantly standing over Myrtle’s lifeless body as the rest of the cats chant, “Myrtle is dead! Long live Myrtle!”

Or, in the tradition of Hamlet, dead bodies scattered across the floor, no one a victor. Or, perhaps it will be more like Macbeth- murder, witches, ghosts, and descents into utter madness. Yeah, that’s probably the one.

Act I, Scene I

(A living room, midnight. Three cats encircle a cauldron, whiskers tossing wildly in the wind- the gusts blowing dust bunnies furiously across the darkened room from the swirling ceiling fan. The dim glow of the nightlight gleams wickedly in their eyes.)

First Cat:          When shall we three meet once more?

At mid-day sun, when naps are o’er?

Second Cat:     When the hissy-fitting’s at an end,

                        And all are established as foe or friend.

Third Cat:         That will be ere night and day blend.

First Cat:          Where is the place?

Second Cat:      Upon the counter top.

Third Cat:         There to meet with Myrtle.

ALL:                Right is wrong, and wrong is right;

                        Slink through the silent and murky night.

[Exeunt]

Although, things would get a little muddled because I guess Myrtle could be Duncan/Macbeth/Lady Macbeth/witch all rolled into one….

It doesn't matter though, not really. Just know that all necessary elements of  a Shakespearean tragedy are in place.

Myrtle's sudden and mysterious appearance in our lives (that story here) dramatically changed the dynamics of our human-dog-cat-cat existence. Or at least the cat-cat part. Charlie wasn't much bothered. As long as the cats stayed away from his rawhide bones and understood that I was HIS, things remained peaceful on that front.  And I'm just the third person omniscient narrator of the house, of little consequence except to keep the cats fed and the stories told.

Up to this point Severus and Minerva, being well-matched in temperament, respectfully ignored one another, except when seeking a napping and/or bathing companion or the occasional friendly competition of Catch the Red Dot. It was an idyllic time, a peaceful time. And there was much purring in the land.

Then, without warning, came The Age of Myrtle.

I knew Myrtle was trouble from the beginning. Later, I couldn't help but wonder if her original plan had been to try to drive me to madness with her ghostly wails, and when that didn't work, it was on to Plan B. Within a few hours of bringing her into the house, she had barricaded herself in the bathroom. Literally barricaded. She had managed to open the cabinet door under the sink and slink through a small opening in the back and push out two drawers, effectively blocking the bathroom door from opening more than an inch. It took much swearing patience, a wire coat hanger, a ruler, and some duct tape to rectify the situation. I'm sure she did it to buy some time to plot. She now knew there were two other cats to contend with. Her only question: to exterminate or to subjugate?

Severus and Minerva, stereotypically curious, spent long periods of time outside the Portal of Mystery (aka, the bathroom door). Unified by circumstance, the two cats whiled away the hours swiping exploratory paws under the door, trading cat insults and swears through the crack, and speculating with one another in low, anxious hisses. Within a couple of days, after I deemed Myrtle healthy and the decision had been made to keep her, she was released from her quarantine. Myrtle made herself at home quickly.

Physically, she was a small, unprepossessing cat. Short legs, short tail. Great big, soulful, mesmerizing, green eyes.

History reveals many megalomaniacs to be small and unprepossessing with mesmerizing eyes.

She had chosen subjugation over extermination. Megalomaniacs love an audience. And someone upon which to wield their infinite power.

For nearly two years, Myrtle has ruled the cats with an iron paw. Myrtle eats first......even though there are enough food bowls for everyone to eat at the same time. There are occasional, unprovoked, double-pawed face smacks, to keep everyone in line. And the sneak attack baths, to humiliate and demoralize the populace. It is difficult to plot a coup when pinned down and your face is being contorted by powerful licks.

But something is happening. Something has changed in the last few weeks.

I see now that we have all underestimated Minerva's intelligence and thirst for vengeance. She has been biding her time. Watching and learning from Myrtle. Planning and plotting. Until such time as she is ready to act.

When is that time?

Apparently, now.

Step One: Build an army of allies.
Minerva was hoping to recruit Mrs. Weasley, the wee ginger ninja, not so wee anymore. She would be a powerful ally. However, that has proved difficult. Myrtle, in a stroke of cunning genius, promptly took Mrs. W. under her wing upon her arrival last summer. She has been brought up under Myrtle's tutelage and they have a strong Obiwan/Skywalker-type bond. Undaunted, Minerva has continued to plant the seeds of rebellion and still hopes to win the ginger ninja over.

She found greater success gaining Severus's support- through her, uh, feline femininity and the fine art of seduction. She may well be the Mata Hari of cats. Severus's indifference was pronounced- at first. But she was relentlessly persistent and soon he fell victim to Minerva's sessy love dances on the floor in front of him (she looked like a trout out of water, flopping all over the place, but he seemed to like it) and her throaty purrs of, "Hey, big boy...." To finish him off, she sang her trilling siren song- a truly impressive compilation of every cat vocalization known to man, and then some. She was his Pied Piper, and she led him merrily down the path of insurrection.

Step Two: Make an unmistakable stand against your foe.
It happened at the food bowls one night. It was the cat equivalent of the Boston Tea Party or Patrick Henry's impassioned "Give me liberty, or give me death!" Momentous. The message could not be ignored. I was scooping food into each bowl, Myrtle sitting right next to them and the other cats hanging back. Suddenly, Minerva sauntered up and sat in front of one of the bowls. Myrtle hissed. Minerva ignored. Claws extended, Myrtle's paw swiped the air in warning. Then the unthinkable occurred. Minerva full-on smacked Myrtle upside the head. There was a collective gasp as we watched Myrtle's whiskers quiver in outraged surprise. I quickly poured the remaining kibble and left the room. I hate confrontations.

Step Three: Prepare for battle.
In the days following The Great Kibble Rebellion, the hot, humid summer air has been rife with tension. Myrtle spends much of her time perched on her throne, eyeing everyone and every thing with deep suspicion, starting at the slightest sound or movement. Minerva and Severus are often found conspiring, whispering plans through their whiskers. Mrs. Weasley no longer seems certain of her loyalty to Myrtle, but is unwilling to commit to Minerva's cause as yet. So, she is remaining neutral for now and spends most of her time in the bedroom, away from the other cats, communing with Frogbert, the toad that lives in the window well.

I, too, remain neutral, as a good storyteller must. I don't know how this will end, only time will tell. But I do know things will never be the same.......

Revolution is nigh.

Confession #5: I Kidnapped Ronald Weasley

I never took him across state lines, though. And really, I feel there was no wrong-doing on my part.

However, there does seem to be some disagreement regarding the exact circumstances.

I'll let you decide. 

My Version:

Last summer, my sister and her family went on a longish road trip and asked me to watch their pets. A dog, Dixie, who later became known only as "Idiot", and a cat, Ronald Weasley, who happens to be Severus's littermate. Having mooched resided in their basement rent-free for several months the year before, I owed them big-time. So I said no problem.

I stopped by their house a few hours after they had left to pick up the animals and add two more to the zoo at home. 

Ronald is not what you would call a good traveler. Every time Ronald gets into the car, terrible things happen. Terrible, terrible things. My sister told me to give Ronald some Benedryl.  I got a little plate and dumped some Fancy Feast onto it and shoved the pill into the middle. Normally, it would have been gone in seconds. Ronald refused to even sniff it. Now I'd have to get a little hands on. I've found butter helps pills slide down cat gullets a little easier. So, I buttered it up, held Ronald, and then I don't really remember what happened next. I didn't know where the pill went. I just knew where it wasn't. So, we drove off undrugged. Terrible, terrible things occurred.

When we pulled into the garage, I decided to re-introduce Dixie and Charlie before taking care of Ronald and his terribleness. Things went pretty well between Dixie, Charlie, and my cats. I brought Ronald in and set his carrier down on the floor and left to prepare a nice, relaxing bath. However, Ronald didn't seem to enjoy it at all. Some cats just don't appreciate amenities.

Shortly after Ronald's bath, the dogs had to go outside. After a few minutes, Dixie slipped out of his collar and proceeded to run down the sidewalk. Being an intelligent dog owner, I knew not to chase him or yell at him, but to try and catch his attention by making him think I'm doing something much more fun and interesting. And it was working. He came right up to me and I got his collar on and then, out of the blue, he had a major freak out. He started biting and scratching and peed all over  himself.......and me. That was the point at which he became "Idiot." So, two more baths were in order. 

The rest of the week and a half went much more smoothly. There was much hissing between the cats, but otherwise peaceful. With one exception. Mrs. Weasley was still just a lil thing and super playful. Her favorite game was "Sneak Attack!" She's a wee ginger ninja. And her favorite target became Ronald. Probably because of his extreme over-reaction. He's kind of a drama queen. He would jump about a foot in the air, and then get this look of hurt outrage while shouting, "Why????????????? WHY would you DO such a thing???? To ME????"

Oh, and there was the nightly mrowing outside my door. But living with Myrtle, one learns to sleep through that kind of thing.

Dixie Idiot developed a seriously annoying attachment to me. I guess peeing all over someone creates a deep feeling of adoration and adulation. The feeling was NOT mutual. 

All in all, I was very happy to return my sister's fur family at the end of their trip. And let them deal with Ronald's terrible, terrible travel aftermath. Life with a dog, a cat, a cat, a cat, a cat, a cat, and an idiot, was a bit much, even for me.

Ronald's Version (as transcribed from what he apparently thought was his video blog):

It is day 346 of my captivity. Or maybe it has only been an hour. I just don't even know. Because I am a cat. What I do know is a lady that sometimes comes over, came over. My People were not there to protect me. I now hate my People. This lady attempted to drug me. But I foiled her attempt. Twice. I am not Dog. You cannot trick me with your pills stuffed in Fancy Feast or butter. I hope my People slip on the buttered pill that I regurgitated on the floor...and die. Alas, my captor overpowered me and stuffed me into a small portable jail cell. Dog trotted along and hopped in the vehicle. Dog is an idiot.

As my captor drove off with us, I tried to soften her heart by singing the song of my people. It is a mournful dirge of 97 verses. She was unmoved. Enraged, I loosed many scathing epithets....and then....my bowels. I thought she would stop and then I would make my escape. She did not stop. My only consolation is that I made the remainder of the journey quite unpleasant for her. Dog did nothing but gaze eagerly out the window. Dog is an idiot.

We drove into a dark cavern. I was left alone for a moment as my captor took Dog somewhere. Then I felt myself being moved. I smelled much danger. She set me down. Immediately I felt a surge of hope. Ones like me surrounded my cell- surely to rescue me?

No, no. Fate is a cruel mistress. The Others hissed in mockery. Taunting. Baiting. I hate the Others. To make things worse, after the Others left Big Dog came sniffing around. But then, mercifully, my captor lifted me away. Little did I know she was about to subject me to an unspeakable hell.

Bath time.

I cannot describe the indignities. Suffice it to say, my suffering was great.

The next few hours or days or years are a blur. My captor has allowed me to wander the house...a false freedom...what with Big Dog and the Others constantly hunting me. The worst of them all is the smallest one, who, ironically, is a facsimile of myself during kittenhood. She is most vicious, employing guerrilla tactics and inducing near heart attacks at regular intervals. I continue to suffer most grievously.

One unexpected high point was when Dog showed surprising resourcefulness when he attempted an escape and viciously attacked our captor. Within hours, however, Dog succumbed to extreme Stockholm syndrome and now slavishly follows our captor about. Dog is an idiot.

I have nearly given up hope of being rescued and resign myself to a life of captivity for now. I while away the long hours of daylight hiding from my tormentors. The time is not wasted, though. I have composed a ballad of my suffering. Each night I pace the corridor of my captor's bedchamber and sing my lament.

Oh cat gods of Felinia, hear my plea!!! May my lament travel upon the Zephyr winds and reach the ears of my People.

They must save me. They must. They can leave Dog. Dog is an idiot.

It will be a joyous reunion. I shall ignore them for a while, to impress upon them my intense displeasure. But being a feline of generous nature, above pettiness, I shall, after a time, bestow upon them my forgiveness. In the form of a deceased bird. And there shall be much rejoicing and rubbing of ankles.

Now I must go. My captor is returning. She must not find me here.

If you are watching this, contact the authorities. Save me.

Please.

Confession #4: I Said Some Swears At Motel 666

After Myrtle's morning round of Ultimate Hide-and-Seek, we quickly made for the Iowa border on Day Three of our journey. Charlie had fun pretending he was Big Dog on the Prairie.

The cats were quiet again. I started listening to Harry Potter on CD. The cats loved it. Only Myrtle complained. Probably because her name wasn't mentioned as often as the others' were. The day seemed to fly by, and before I knew it, we were in the outskirts of Des Moines. This Motel 6 was pretty fancy-schmancy for a Motel 6. It even had an elevator. But we didn't have to take it. I'd requested a first floor room and we were kitty-corner (ha!) to the lobby. So nice when trying to load/unload so much cargo. But I did get some looks from the desk clerk starting at my third out five trips. After my first night checking in, I learned to say, "Oh, and I have my dog and cats with me." No numbers. Never use numbers.

While I was checking in, there was an elderly couple in front of me. They took a while...they were one of those couples that calls each other "Mother" and "Dad" and they were filling the desk clerk in on their life history. So, I just took a seat, smiled, and enjoyed the show. They were a hoot.

I got checked in and was grabbing Charlie and my bags as they were shuffling back in with their things. The man said, "Hold up just a minute, Mother. I got something for this young lady."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out two shiny pennies with a cross cutout.

"This one's for you, God bless ya. And this one's for your pup dog. Even pup dogs need God's blessings."

I thanked him and they shuffled off to their room and Charlie and I shuffled off to ours. Sweet man. I should have gone back to find him to tell him that my kitten cats need God's blessings, too. Myrtle especially. I'm pretty sure she's renamed herself Myrtle Hellbeast von Satanspawn.

It had been our shortest driving day, but we were all beat and promptly sacked out for a three-hour nap. After we woke up, Charlie and I took a nice, long walk around the surrounding business park. It was another nice, relaxing evening. Not even any attempted great escapes.

In the morning, once again, Myrtle thought it would be fun to defy the odds and find an improbable hiding place. Somehow she found a gap in the platform bed. She must've cased the

joint while Charlie and I took our morning walk. But it was nothing a little muscle and quick reflexes couldn't solve.

Once we were on the road, things went much more smoothly. For a while.

As we crossed into Illinois, we hit road work. Then some more road work. And more. All day long. What was supposed to be a 6-hour drive, became 8-1/2 hours. We must have angered the travel gods. It wasn't bad enough that we kept having to sit through delays...the Harry Potter CD was EATEN by the car!!!!! EATEN!!!!!!!! It's still in there. It was not a magical day. We all just wanted to get to the motel and veg.  When we finally arrived, it turned out to be in the middle of NOWHERE. I pulled in and started getting a very Bates Motel vibe. I didn't get a chance to do a lot of looking around while I was dumping cats and luggage into the room. But I remember my first impression was, "Hey, this is pretty nice!" The room was huge, king bed, sofa and easy chair, fridge and microwave, etc.

Then I turned on the lights.

Are you familiar with this?

Well, Fozzie. I found the sad one. Without cute Muppet vermin.

Holes in the walls and ceiling.  The headboard of the bed was literally hanging by a nail. I had to reattach it a couple times. The bathroom was.....icky.....The carpet was moist. Moist, I tell you. I felt it through my socks. But I was so tired. I figured, I'd just stay in bed and not eat or drink or touch any surfaces whatsoever. However, I was pretty certain that even just breathing in the air I was one mutated motel germ away from becoming Patient Zero of the next world-wide pandemic. Even the cats were grossed out. They stayed off the floor as much as possible.

Severus was not impressed with our accommodations.

I'd just find the nearest gas station first thing in the morning to take care of....the necessities. And then I looked at the pillows. There was a hair on one.

I flipped it over.

There was half a face imprinted on it.

Orange-y foundation, smeared mascara, pink lipstick.

"Oh, Hell no! HELL NO!"

Sorry, Mama. I did. I said it. Real loud, too. I would have left, right then and there. But it was late, and when you're traveling with pets, especially with as many as I had, you don't have the luxury of simply walking in to the first hotel with a vacancy sign. I know I could have requested another pillow, or even another room, but I was afraid of what I would get. And the night manager lady was scary. Like mother of a serial killer scary. I ran out to the car with my body guard, Charlie, and grabbed Charlie's big travel blanket I had cushioning the back seat. I cocooned myself in it, so none of me touched the bedding. I would catch a few hours of sleep and be on my way at the crack of dawn.

Of course it didn't happen that way. The other cats wanted out of Motel 666 almost as much as I did, but Myrtle just had play her little games. When I couldn't find her I first checked behind the tv/chest of drawers console. Nope. Checked behind the couch. Nope. I even tried moving it. It weighed a ton and there was less than an inch between it's bottom and the floor. No way she was there. That left the platform bed. Again. I had known it was inevitable. But it was a king-sized bed. I wanted to be sure I wasn't moving it for nothing.

I moved it for nothing. She wasn't there.

That meant she HAD to be under the couch.

Nope.

She was IN the couch.

I pulled off the cushions and discovered it was a fold-out bed and started unfolding it.

That cat is the most brilliant, evil, conniving....

 I should have left her at THAT motel. She could be one of those resident cats some places have. To give the place a cozy, homey atmosphere. Myrtle Hellbeast von Satanspawn of Motel 666 will leave the lights on for you.

But, I got her. And we began our fifth and final day of driving. Our new home was just a few hours away.




The drive into Indiana was slow and construction-filled, as well. But better than the previous day. We still had no Harry Potter, but I was able to find a decent radio station and we all sang along. By the time we made it over the Kentucky state line, things were flowing smoothly again. We pulled up to the farm a couple hours later and started a whole new adventure.

Confession #1: How I Became a Cat Lady

I didn't mean to become a cat lady.

At least, not until I was well into my 70s or 80s.

But I'm definitely not crazy. Not yet.

Some people think four cats is a lot. But it's not. It's technically not even 'several' or 'many.' If you had four cookies would you say, "I have many cookies" or "I have several cookies"? No, you would say, "I have a few cookies." (Personally, I would probably say, "I don't have ENOUGH cookies.")

See, here are the evidenciary number-to-descriptor standards:

1 = one
2 = a couple
3-4 = a few
5-6 = several
7-8 = many
9-10 = a lot
11+ = many a lots

(Source: Because I Said So)

I'm BARELY even a cat lady. I'm entry-level. Some real cat lady is probably reading this, saying, "Dahling, please....four cats and already calling yourself a Cat Lady? The presumption!"

Anyway, like I said, I never meant to become a cat lady at the tender age of *cough,cough*.

It is a wild tale of coercion, daring rescues, a desperate stow away, and sheer acquisitiveness.


Severus Comes Home
Two years ago, almost to the day, I was simply a lady with a dog. I was living in my sister's basement while I was waiting to close on my first house. One day my sister, Lara, came downstairs. This is how I remember it:

"Mandy! Carl said I can get a kitten! You HAVE to get one, too. Or I'll break all your fingers and toes and then you can never be a famous piano-playing ballerina. As has been your dearest wish since childhood. Get in the car and get a kitten with me, NOW!" So, of course I had to. Right?

Now, if you ask my sister, she'll probably tell you it happened like this:



Lara: "Mandy! Carl said I can get a kitten! You should get one, too!"

Me: "Yeah, I should!"

So I did.

Regardless of which story you choose to believe, the end result was that we both got kittens. Brothers, in fact. And being equally obsessed with Harry Potter, my sister named her ginger cat Ronald Weasley, and I named my black cat, Severus Snape. I momentarily toyed with "Sirius Black" but discarded it as too trite. Plus, even as a kitten, Severus demonstrated an uncannily Snape-ish cat sneer.

Minerva Comes Home
A couple months after Charlie, Severus, and I moved into our spacious new home, I made one fateful decision, uncovered a despicable aspect of humanity, and came face-to-face with some self-truths:

1) I joined the community's Facebook pet page

2) Many people in my very rural, and therefore transient, community (not many could stand the commute to civilization for very long) tended abandon pets rather than take them along or try to find them new homes.

3) I have a bleeding heart, a talent for rationalizing, and a debilitating weakness for kittens.

It was Fall Break and I was spending a delightfully lazy day curled up with Charlie and Severus, reading, watching t.v., and updating my Facebook Status to let the world know I was having a delightfully lazy day curled up with Charlie and Severus, reading and watching t.v. I decided to check out the pet page. I was scrolling through when I came upon a plea for help......and a picture of THE most beautiful kitten I had ever seen.

This lady said a stray kitten had been hanging around their house (one of the first completed homes in a new subdivision under construction). She had taken it in for a couple of days, but couldn't keep it. If no one responded by 3pm, the kitten was going to the pound when she went to run her errands. It was nearly 2:45pm. I looked at Charlie and Severus and said, "I am going to save that cat." They answered by continuing to sleep. I messaged the lady to text me her address and I would be there right away.

I jumped out of bed, threw my hair into a bun, shoved my feet into my slippers, grabbed my keys and the cat carrier and went out the door. By the time I had pulled out of the garage, the lady had texted me directions and I was on my way. I showed up at her door just before 3pm and more or less snatched the cat from her and drove away. The whole way back I rationalized my rashness. There's plenty of room, my house is 24-freakin-hundred square feet. Two cats are just as easy as one. Severus can have a playmate. Everybody needs a gray tabby...

Of course, when it came to naming her, it was a no-brainer. Gray tabby? M on her forehead? So, I introduced Charlie and Severus to their new roommate, Professor Minerva McGonagall.

Myrtle Comes Home
Myrtle's story is, by far, the strangest of tales. It's a Christmas story, too.

December 2012 was one of the most frigid winters I can remember. It was a couple days before Christmas, and I found myself at the InstaCare, horrifically sick. As in, blisters in the back of my throat, both ears infected, and the rest of my body was one giant ache. It was bad. All I could do was stare miserably at the doctor as he wrote out several prescriptions. Then he hugged me and called me Boo. Yes, that happened. He was a cute, little old doctor.

I pulled into the garage 30-minutes later, having skidded and slid my way home on the snowy, icy roads. Then I took my drugs and sacked out. I'm not sure how much later it was when something woke me up. I remember staring blearily up at the ceiling for a few minutes. Then I heard it. Meowing. I looked at Severus. He was nestled against my back, still sleeping. I sat up, listening closely for a few more minutes. Nothing. So, I went back to sleep. I was so sick, and so full of drugs, that I pretty much slept through the rest of the day and night. A few times I thought I heard meowing again, but figured it was a neighbor's cat, and went back to sleep each time.

By the next day, the drugs had kicked in and I was feeling much better and more alert. I was able to sit up and watch t.v. and read for a couple of hours at a time. And I kept hearing a cat meow. My ears were still pretty bad and all sounds were muffled, so I had a hard time telling which direction the meowing was coming from, but I figured it HAD to be the neighbor's cat. And I started thinking, Why don't they let it in?! It's freezing out there! Jerkwads! I decided that if they weren't going to let their cat in, I would bring it in to my house and keep it in the bathroom so it could get warm. So, I peeked out my window to see if it was at their front door. Nope. Then, I went out back, pretending to let Charlie out to pee, and checked their back door. Still no cat. Hmmm...

The rest of the day and evening, I continued to hear the poor kitty, and I shot dirty looks and self-righteous animal rights thoughts toward the neighbors.

On Christmas Eve day, I woke up feeling almost normal and my hearing significantly improved. Almost immediately, I started hearing cat meows again. More like banshee yowls, to be precise. And now I could tell that those yowls were coming from..............my house.

But I still couldn't pinpoint exactly where. The cat would yowl, a long, mournful wail, and then go silent for a while. I looked everywhere in the house. Running here and there each time the yowling began, I became certain I had a cat in the walls or maybe the attic crawl space. I thought, Good heavens, I'm going to have to put a freakin' hole in a wall to pull out this freakin' cat! I actually went around with a broomstick, first bumping the attic crawl space, then tapping walls and putting my ear up against them to listen for the slightest sound. Nothing. At this point, I was now pretty sure the drugs had scrambled my brains and I was having audio hallucinations or my house was haunted by a cat. A very loud cat.

Just when I was about to call someone to come over and see if they could hear this phantom cat, I happened to be walking past my garage door (you have to go through the kitchen to get to the garage) when the yowling began again. It was most definitely coming from the garage. But I had checked the garage, twice. I opened the door and started looking around again. There wasn't much to look at. My car, a couple of shovels, a rake, a couple bags of potting soil, a roll of carpet remnants, and a grill. That was it. NOWHERE for a cat to hide. Now I was seriously perplexed. Throughout the rest of the day, every time I'd hear the yowling, I'd rush over and yank the door open, but I never saw any movement. So, guess how I spent my Christmas Eve?

I propped open the door, placed a can of tuna in the center of the garage, turned on some Christmas music, wrapped myself in a blanket, and sat on my kitchen floor to stake out the garage. Nothing happened for about twenty minutes. Suddenly, there was a quick movement under the car and I saw a yellow flash of glowing eyes. I held my breath and tried to stay as still as possible. Then I saw a nose poke out of the shadows, then a head, then the rest of her was out. And then I did something stupid. I yelled, "You're really real!!!" And she disappeared again. But now that I knew I wasn't stark-raving mad, I shut the door and left her to her tuna. It took me until Christmas night to catch her and finally figure out why I hadn't been able to see her whenever I searched the garage. AND how she got into the garage in the first place.

Flashback to the InstaCare: FYI, there are horse stables just behind the building. With stable cats. Freezing cold day, nice warm engine...

My car: Just behind the engine block there's a small platform. Apparently large enough for a small, determined cat to ride through 12 miles of snowy, icy roads. How she stayed on, heaven only knows.

Given the circumstances, it was only appropriate that she be named Moaning Myrtle.

Mrs. Weasley Comes Home
Don't worry. This one's short. This is where the sheer acquisitiveness comes in.

It had been several months since I had acquired my last feline companion. I figured, three cats in about as many months. That's a little excessive. People must be thinking I'm starting to turn into one of those "crazy cat ladies." Yeah, no more cats. Three is plenty.

And then, in July, I was scrolling through that dangerous Facebook pet page. And another lady was asking for help. Someone to give a little kitten that had been abandoned on her doorstep a home. I looked at the picture and thought,

Everybody needs a ginger cat....