April showers bring May...KITTENS!

Well, there were flowers, too.  But along with the   lilacs, violets, bluets, forsythia, tulips, and hyacinths, an awful lot of kittens were showing up.  First Mama appeared with four.  Not long after Mama, Blue  dropped by with her brood of four.  But it was Vick that dealt me the most traumatic blow.  When she showed up with her kittens, I nearly wept.  Three of the four kittens were orange.  I've disliked orange cats since a nasty encounter with Old Ugly, the evil orange cat.  I've got to admit the way each kitten was a different shade of orange was very artistic on Vick's part.  And the little blue and white one guy was absolutely adorable.  

If Possum Lily had kittens, she never brought them around.  Vick kept driving her away.   

Minnie's kittens came last.  She didn't have them off in the woods like the others had.  Instead she selected a box on the big porch for the nursery.  I discovered her in the box with her firstborn a little after noon.  I shut and barricaded the porch door to keep the cats out.  By late afternoon, Minnie had delivered five kittens.

There were now seventeen kittens hanging around.  Mama would soon misplace one and Blue did the same which left fifteen.  Most likely, many of them were females.  Even I could see I had a situation on my hands.

      

       

  

The calm before the storm

Once whatever demons possessing the cats had departed, things got fairly quiet.  The only night howling now was the occasional man-cat fight or visit from a marauding predator, such as an opossum or raccoon.

Although...something strange was happening.  Some of the cats were getting fat.  The odd thing was the weight gain seemed to be divided up by gender.  The males kept their trim figures throughout the winter.  But the ladies seemed to be getting downright plump.  By the time spring rolled around, they were cumbersome and waddling.

Was I worried, yet?  Not exactly.  It wasn't like I knew their plans.  Mama did seem to be developing a bad habit of dropping her children off at the Porch Daycare.  But Blue hadn't brought her first litter around until they were old enough to eat and they didn't stay long.  It wasn't likely that Possum Lily would bring her kids, since Vick was always chasing her off.  But the main reason I wasn't too worried was because I was preoccupied with Minnie. 

Minnie had become my adopted cat.  Her kittens would be my adopted grand-kittens.  Like any grandmother to be, I was nervous and excited.  Minnie was scouting around the house, inside and out, looking for the perfect nesting place.  Since Minnie was opinionated, I could only hope she would nest in a safe place.  I tried suggesting several places but she kept on

scouting.  The only thing I could do was follow her with a net.  Fortunately, I didn't have a net.     

Howling all night

Cats don't just hunt and eat, sleep and play.  They also go into heat.  When this happens, they temporarily lose their minds.  If there are five females and countless males hanging around and howling all night, you lose your mind.  It seems to go on forever. 

You can't sleep.  The silence of the night is shattered by bloodcurdling howls and intermittent shrieks.

Daytime isn't much better.  The howls and shrieks continue.  Creatures you thought you knew are now deranged hollow-eyed strangers, followed by hordes of wild eyed actual strangers.  They all flit by the food dishes like ghosts.

They fall like dominoes.  Mama.  Blue.  Vixen.  Possum Lily.  The only one left sane is Minnie.  But a week after the others become zombies, Minnie succumbs to the same affliction.  The males aren't behaving any better.  They chase after their female relatives with evil intentions.

In the nick of time, just as you begin to contemplate shooting the whole lot, they suddenly regain their senses.  They quiet down and things appear to go back to normal.  But this normalcy is deceptive, the calm before the storm.  Before long, those interminable two weeks will seem like quiet hour, because soon, all hell will break loose.        

Cool cat hangout

Fall of 2008 was approaching.  There were eight regulars: Blue, Minnie, Vick, Tommy, the two Darryls,  Possum Lily and Mama hanging around.  Since I had propped open the screened porch, they began taking over both porches.  But most of them seemed to favor the big screened porch. 

The porches provided some shelter from the elements, but only the little porch actually had a shelter, the big dog house.  Since there were warring factions amongst the cats, more shelters were needed.  With a limited budget and no carpentry skills, I had to get creative.  So I got a bunch of big boxes and duct taped vinyl table cloths around them to weatherproof them.  Then the boxes were insulated with squares of mattress topper foam sewn into blankets.  The lids were duct taped shut and a doorway was hacked in the front of each box. 

Although the first box houses weren't particularly pretty, they were an instant hit.  The cats loved them.  Sometimes two or three feline friends would share a box.  Eventually, I made doors out of old towels to keep the boxes warmer and the cats navigated those door coverings like professionals. When it started to get really cold, I covered the screens with sheets of plastic to keep the wind and snow out.  Bathroom facilities weren't required since the door was propped open a foot.  The cats could come and go as they pleased.  Fortunately, they did leave to go.

I never figured out a way to keep water unthawed so I changed it often, provided food, and the whole group survived the winter.  The unfriendly cats wouldn't run when I entered their porch, but they stayed unfriendly.  The hard core hostiles were Pretty Darryl, Mama, and Possum Lily.  They would tolerate my presence and allow me to feed them but never changed their attitudes.  Since Mama was hostile and kittens tend to mimic their mother, the behavior of the "self-tamers", Tommy, Darryl, Minnie and Vick was intriguing.  I hadn't exactly gone out of my way to befriend them, but they seemed to like human companionship.  I had worked really hard to befriend Blue, yet her behavior fell somewhere between the two groups.    

 Cat-hater Minnie and I had really bonded.  She began following me into the house at night and we would hang out until she wanted to leave.  The hour she wanted to leave got later and later each night.  One day I set up a litter box, hoped that she would use it, and let her stay in all night.  Minnie knew what to do with the litter box and was soon staying in every night.  After about a week, I made a surprising discovery.  Every night, after I went to bed, she would come upstairs and slip into my room.  Then she would open the door to a wooden wardrobe, go into it and sleep there.  This was extremely brave of her since she wouldn't allow any of the other humans in the house to get near her.              

Money cat? They must mean Tommy.

Some people call calico cats money cats.  These people have got it all wrong.  It's very obvious they've never met Tommy.  Now Tommy is a true money cat, expensive as hell.  This handsome, six year old, Mel Gibson look-alike, has managed to use up eight of his nine lives and lost his tail in the process.  He's been patched up so many times, tail surgery being the last straw, that he is now confined indoors.

Does being confined indoors keep him out of trouble?  Not a chance.  Recently, after the sudden onset of a mystery illness, he was hospitalized and diagnosed with feline HIV.  But at least for now, and hopefully for a long time to come, he's back to his usual charming hungry self.

Why does this poor guy have such rotten luck?  Well, I know for sure that several black cats have crossed his path.  He's also been known to walk under ladders and step on cracks.

I presently have four calico cats.  They haven't brought me any money but they haven't cost me a fortune either.  Although Tommy hasn't brought me any money, he has cost me a fortune.  This is scientific proof, folks.  Without a doubt, the real  money cat is Tommy.    

              

Catfights! Fighting like cats and...cats

Humans give cat- fights a bad name.  In a human cat-fight, maybe there's a little name calling, some face slapping, even some hair pulling.  No big deal.

A cat-fight between cats is another story.  It's the real deal.  There's screaming and yowling as fur actually flies through the air to land in clumps on the ground.  And then there's the blood.  The wounds the angry felines inflict upon each other often get infected and abscess.

That damn ugly old orange cat was bad news, nothing but trouble.  If I had only known the trouble he was going to cause, I would have throttled the mangy old S.O.B. with my bare hands and then disinfected myself after.

For nearly a year, Wolf had been my pride and joy.  I had watched him grow from a bashful kitten into a magnificent cat.   True, he was pretty feral and his wild streak ran deep.  But he graced me with his company, allowed me to pamper him with delicacies and rewarded me with occasional pats.  When hanging with Wolf, I knew I was privileged to be in the company of a very special being.

I had been leaving the screen door propped open so my flock of ferals could avail themselves of the comforts of the porch.  Old Ugly, thief and intruder, was not included in this group.  No matter how many times I chased him away, he'd come skulking back.  One night after feeding and hanging out with Wolf, I went inside the house.  A while later, there was a crash, the sounds of objects falling, and much yowling coming from the porch.  I rushed out to discover that Wolf and Old Ugly had gotten into a fight, knocked the door shut, and were trapped together on the porch.  I rushed out, got between the battling felines, and flung the door open.  Wolf bolted out into the night.  The ugly orange beast climbed up on a storage cabinet to cower and refused to move for several hours.  Trust me, I did my best to convince the old bag of mange to leave.  I gave up and the nasty intruder finally left around midnight.  But I never saw Wolf again.  He was badly rattled, maybe injured when he fled which must have made him careless.  With coy dogs, fisher cats,  foxes, and all kinds of nasty things roaming the woods, I doubt Wolf lived the night.  Because of this, I should have helped Old Ugly leave the porch sooner... in pieces.

And since we're speaking of cat fights, the civil war of Tommy and Pretty Darryl must be mentioned.  At first it was kind of funny.  At night, they would face off.  First they would sit facing each other and yowl, making the most unbelievable sounds.  It was as if they were two space aliens shouting at each other in a strange language.  Sometimes they would do this for ten minutes at a time.  When they couldn't resolve their differences verbally, which they never could, things would get physical.  It wasn't bad at first.  But eventually, the fur would fly and blood would spill. 

They were fighting a turf war.  They had decided only one of them could stay.  And neither wanted to leave.  Eventually, Tommy would drive Pretty Darryl off.  But Pretty Darryl wouldn't stay gone.

The other Darryl had spent his whole first winter hanging on and around the porch.  I don't know why he did this but I enjoyed his company.  But unfortunately, by hanging out, he didn't develop his street smarts.  The first warm day after the snow melted, he went off and never came back.  If Darryl had lived, there would have been three brothers battling over turf. 

The ladies weren't above the occasional cat-fight.  Nobody fought with Mama.  But Blue hated Minnie.  Still, she was fairly lady- like about it.  Angel faced Vick was not a lady.  She had developed an unbelievable hatred for Possum Lily.  I was constantly stopping Vick from attacking poor Lily.  But Vick would not be stopped.  Eventually, I realized she wasn't even letting Possum Lily eat.  Lily didn't like me, but when I saw  the poor little cat wistfully hanging around the outskirts of the woods, I started bringing her food and making sure she got to eat it.

So much for my naive idea that humans and ferals could peacefully co-exist.  The damn cats couldn't even co-exist with each other.                               

New Kids on the Block

  
Meowler, Blue's black kitten added a nice splash of color and cattitude to the motley bunch of felines mooching around my porches.  His unfortunate disappearance brought the number of regulars down to eight.

Eight cats is about six too many.  Believe it or not, I still wasn't worried.  The feline population seemed to be controlled somewhat by cars, plows and and kitten- eating things that lurked the woods.  My anguish when any of the uninvited visitors disappeared doesn't say much for my sanity.

But the increasing feline population seemed to grate on feline nerves and personality clashes were becoming more evident.  To divide warring factions up, the dining facilities were expanded.  Mama and her youngest brood had taken over the little porch containing the infamous dog house.  I had opened up the screened porch to feed the older cats.  Wolf only stopped by twice a day and the kittens, especially Minnie, made him edgy.  Minnie always managed to be there and provoke Wolf, so I had to guard him while he ate to protect her.    

On the big porch, originally set up for humans, there was a glider and an old armchair.  On rainy days, there would be cats sprawled all over the furniture.  It really was picturesque.  The cats were so comfortable, even the hardcore ferals wouldn't budge when I came out to take pictures.

Wolf, Blue, Minnie and Vic were all the feline friends I needed.  I didn't even bother trying to befriend the new bunch.  But it seems I didn't have a choice in the matter. 

Of the four new kids on the block, it was the little calico that stood out.  I knew immediately she was a female because calicos usually are.  But it wasn't just her gender or exotic coloring that differentiated her.  The nasty little hellcat had a foul disposition.  Compared to her, Mama was really quite pleasant.  In spite of the kitten's ugly disposition and the permanent sneer frozen on her face, she really was a pretty little thing.  But.when she snarled and hissed, which was all the time, she looked chillingly like an opossum.  To capture both sides of her, I named her 'Possum Lily.

The other three were tigers and at first it was hard to tell them apart.  Then one of the tigers, a sturdy, brazen, little punk, began to stand out.  The little creature began to stalk and observe me.  When he was sitting a few feet away and staring at me, I noticed dark grey ran all the way down his nose and that the end of his nose was black.  Even when he was still quite small, there was no mistaking him for a female.  Not very original, but since he was obviously a tom cat, he became Tommy.  After staking out the human enemy, little Tommy decided he liked the dumb human and was going to tame it.  And it was impossible for this human not to fall in love with the brash little wise guy.  Before long, he had invaded and infested the big porch and every time I stepped out, he was underfoot.

Probably to prove the copycat saying true, another tiger followed his lead.  This guy had big close set eyes and a long face which reminded me of a certain actress so I called him Darryl.  This cat was a pushy, in your face kind of guy, which got on my nerves at first.  But before long, we were buddies and I got quite attached to him.  One day I was playing with Tommy and Darryl in the yard.  As I dragged a branch, they were chasing it and pouncing.  I happened to looked at Darryl and a field with long dry grass flashed into my mind. 

I had seen this field in a dream around the time Blue's kittens disappeared.  In the dream, the late Tiggie had appeared and showed me the field.  With the logic that only seems to work in dreams, I knew the dry field meant that Blue's kittens were dead.  So when I saw the field while looking at Darryl, I felt he wouldn't live long.  I shrugged the creepy feeling off. 

There was one more tiger.  He wasn't friendly and had no intentions of becoming friendly.  I couldn't even pin his personality down enough to name him.  He had such a pretty face, he should have been a female.  But he wasn't.  And he began to show a mean streak towards the other cats.  I settled for calling him Pretty Darryl.  If I had known then what I know now, I probably would have called him Godzilla or Cujo.  To this day, the beast comes around to steal food, piss all over the porch, and pester the spayed women-folk until I chase him off.  Perhaps if his brothers hadn't been so extroverted, or if I'd had the time or inclination to work with him, he'd be a nicer guy today.

But perhaps it wouldn't have mattered.  This dumb human had a lot to learn about feline ways.  People always refer to combatants as fighting like dogs and cats.  Why not say fighting like cats and cats?  Fights between cats are just as vicious and more hateful.  A cat can carry a mean, long lasting, bloody grudge against another cat.  When the feline version of puberty hit, brothers Pretty Darryl and Tommy would become deadly foes.                              

3 + 2 + 4 + 5 - 5 , still equals a lot of cats

Apparently, Mama had set a high goal for herself.  She was out to prove that cats could reproduce as rapidly as rabbits and she was closing in fast on her goal..  By late spring, Mama had moved a new brood of four onto the little porch.  Minnie and Vick were cast adrift.  

I don't know where Blue had her first litter.  When they were old enough, she began their education by bringing them to my porch for free food.  Blue didn't growl and hiss at me.  She didn't need to.  Her kittens were horrified at their first sight of a human.  But since Blue was an inexperienced mother, most of her kittens disappeared rather quickly.  The only one of her children I saw more than a few times was Meowler, a funny little black wiseguy.  I was really sorry when he disappeared.  Cats are predators but they are also prey and I assume that something preyed on Blue's children.

To cope with her loss, Blue adopted Vick and they remained fast friends.  But for some strange reason, Blue absolutely hated Minnie and never got over it.  Wolf tolerated Vick and would let her eat out of his dish.  But he hated Minnie, too.  All Minnie had to do to get swatted was to walk by.  Minnie didn't seem to care that the other cats disliked her because she hated cats.  She seemed to prefer me.  Before long, she was following me into the house for quick visits.  By fall she would be sleeping indoors at night.   

In the dog house...again

Throughout the winter, Mama had been getting bigger and hungrier.  The poor girl was waddling into my yard several times a day looking for food.  Just when I thought she was nearly ready to explode, she stopped showing up.

A few days later, she reappeared.  Her svelte figure was back and she was ravenous.  For a few weeks, she came to breakfast, dinner and supper alone.

Then early one morning, before feeding time, I was standing at the end of the screen porch.  To my surprise, there were furry little things scurrying around on the little porch.  Then I saw Mama and knew she and her new kittens had moved in.  Because the little porch was also the cafeteria of Wolf and expectant mother, Blue, I had to find a way to prevent turf wars and squabbles.  Since Mama was so irascible, and Wolf was so creeped out by the kittens, it wasn't hard to convince Wolf and Blue to avoid the matriarch and her new brood.  I did this by propping the screen door open and coaxing them up onto the big porch to dine.  This was a harbinger of things to come.  Before long, both porches would be commandeered by felines.

Although the cast of kittens on the little porch had changed, Mama's disposition hadn't.  She would sit imperiously and stare at the magic door.
Translation: "Hey, Stupid!  We're getting hungry out here.  Bring us food.  Now!" 
But to bring her food, I had to step out onto her turf, the place formerly known as my porch.  When I obeyed her summons, she'd still reward me with growls and hisses.  And now there was a new spin to the game.  The kittens could dive behind the doghouse when the door opened.  So when I stepped out, big eyed, snarling, hissing, little faces peered out at me.

With the new brood of children, Mama had reverted to her old philosophy: cars are good and people are bad.  A short time later, two kittens were lost because she had taught them to hide under cars hoods.  When I saw Mama standing in the driveway howling after a departing vehicle, I knew what had happened.  But the damage was done.  To avoid any more disasters, a new policy was put in place.  No car could leave the driveway until under the hood had been checked and the horn vigorously blown to scare off any stowaways.  By taking these preventative measures, another kitten was rescued in time.

Stubbornness was a trait Mama and I seemed to share.  I was very attached to my old pals, Wolf and Blue.  Mama and the new brood seemed to be pushing them out.  I resented this and referred to the newcomers as Mama's little minions.  Soon the exquisite little pair of calicos were named Minion and Vixen.  And though I wasn't particularly friendly, it didn't matter a bit to the curious pair.  They were fascinated by two legged feeding machine and began to stalk me.  I'd be doing yard work and notice the nosy little kittens creeping up to spy on me.

Late at night, I'd go out to my smoking room, the screened porch.  The little pair of thugs would hear me come out and start peering in the screens at me.  Soon peering wasn't enough.  They began poking their little paws into a gap between the screen door and the porch floor.  In self defense against the cute marauders, I found a weapon and began poking back.  These battles became a nightly occurrence.  As the little terrors won me over, Minion and Vixen became Minnie and Vick.

Minnie's colors were brighter and each side of her face had different colors and markings.  This really suited her split personality.  Vick's colors were muted and she had an angelic face.  At first, Miss Angel Face was the more brazen of the pair.  These kittens were different than the last brood.  They stayed around more and seemed to be "self taming".   

Mama and I began to have battles.  She was bringing live prey up on to the porch.  When I caught her doing this, I did my best to discourage it.  But Mama was stubborn and I couldn't watch all the time.  Often now, I'd step out the door to be greeted by growling hissing cats as a mouse head leered up at me.  The hissing and growling I could take.  But not the mouse heads and assorted entrails.  Some mornings I would step out into a twisted biology class named Entrails 101.  Mama's feelings were hurt when I'd grab a shovel and callously dispose of her treasures.  But the puzzled expression on her face as the irate swearing human stomped past with the shovel was priceless.  She seemed to be saying, "What's her problem?  Humans...go figure!"         

Early one morning, I happen to pass by a window and saw the trio, Mama, Minnie and Vick, coming down the driveway.  I stopped to watch.  The sun illuminated their long white legs.  The felines looked so delicate, elegant and beautiful, they resembled porcelain cats.  But as they got closer, I noticed something that shattered the ethereal image.  From angel- faced Vick's mouth dangled a limp chipmunk.  Even better, or worse, Mama looked so proud of her girls.           

Madam Blue changes her mind

Although Blue and Wolf were the only playmates left, the nightly games continued.  From the opposite end of a stick, string or toy, Blue would play with me for hours.  Although Blue wasn't as authoritarian and rigid as Mama, rules were rules.  If I got fresh and put a hand near her, she would cuff me.

But for months, Blue must have secretly been harboring deep fond feelings for the dumb human that fed and played with her.  Finally, one night those feelings overcame her.  She charged up to me and began rubbing against my leg.  Stunned, I put a hand on her, expecting to get slapped.  Instead she reared up and began dancing. 

 

For the next several years, "the pat dance" was Blue's greeting.  Nearly every time I stepped out the door, Blue would dance at me.  Eventually, the dancing would become hand biting if I didn't produce a treat in a timely fashion.  I may not be the brightest bulb in the room, but I can be taught.  And it didn't take her long to train me not to step out the door empty handed.  

Blue and I now exchanged affectionate greetings.  Wolf and I hunted moths together.  He ate them, I didn't.  Even the look of pure bliss on his face as he dined on moth couldn't convince me to try one.     

Blue wasn't the only one that experienced a mind change.  Occasionally, it occurred to me that I wasn't the one calling the shots.  The cats were in command.  It was a peculiar arrangement.  They were perfectly capable of taking care of themselves and they did, although they happily accepted my offerings.  They had separate lives I knew nothing about and dropped in like friends or neighbors.  I was extremely fond of the pair and was content with the situation.  But Mama had other plans and was about to turn things upside down.

    

Tiggie. And then there were two.

After the amorous raids of the ugly orange ogres were over, things settled down again for a while.  The weather was very cold with frequent snow storms.  I felt bad for the remaining three kittens and tried to entice them in, at least to eat.  They would only come in as far as the thresh- hold and if I tried to shut the door, they would bolt.

Tiggy liked to lure a person out by peeking in the window and looking cute.  She was the champion of cute and did it so well.  But Tiggie tempestuous.  One minute she'd be friendly and purring.  A minute later, your hand or leg might resemble coleslaw.  One cold day, Tiggie was being a real pain.  Every time I passed the window, there was a pair of big eyes peering in.  Occasionally, I'd go out and visit with her or bring her a treat.  After about the sixth time, I went out, grabbed her and brought her in.  But as soon as I shut the door, she went completely berserk.  She frantically raced around howling and throwing herself at walls and windows.  This went on for about twenty minutes.  Fearing for both feline and human safety, I finally was able to capture her and put her out.

Perverse little creature that she was, about a week later, she tried to follow me in.  Busy and wanting to avoid a scene like the previous one, I discouraged her.  It was another decision I would regret.

A few days later, I dozed off while reading.  In a dream, I began to view things from a really weird perspective.  Snow was rushing under my feet, a few inches from my face.  I felt exhilarated as I leap up and over a snow bank.  Suddenly something jarred the side of my head and everything went black.  The jolt was hard enough to startle me awake.  I didn't know what it meant.

The next feeding time, Tiggie was missing.  I was wracked with guilt.  Even though Tiggie was afraid to come in, she must have known what was going to happen would be worse.  I searched for Tiggie but didn't find her until a few days later.  And when I found her, I understood what I had seen and felt in the dream.  Tiggie was stiff and frozen on the side of a snow bank.  The side of her head was bashed in and she was recognizable only by the little white tip on the end of her tail.  While she waited on a snow bank, a plow must have struck her as it passed by.

Oddly, in the spot I picked to bury her, the ground wasn't frozen.  After my husband and I buried the crazy little Tigger, we turned to walk back towards the house.  And stopped in out tracks.  A few feet away from us, a very pregnant Mama crouched and was watching us.  As we walked towards her and then past her, she didn't run.  The expression in Mama's eyes spoke volumes.  She was grieving and as aware as any human would have been in the same circumstance. 

Along with intelligence, cats have feelings and form attachments to each other.  These feline attachments are as strong as any human attachments. 

Feral mother cats care for their offspring until it's almost time for the next litter.  This is usually a span of several months.  Humans like to yank the kittens away from the mother within a few weeks.  I think this  practice causes as much grief to a mother cat as it would to a human. 

In the spring, a black and white soccer ball escaped from some neighborhood kids.  It crossed the street, rolled down a hill, through some bushes and landed on Tiggie's grave.  Years later, it's still there.   

      

Old Ugly

His mother must have loved him.  But that was a long time ago.  He must have had a wife or two or three because there was also Son of Ugly and Grandson of Ugly.

 This trio of flea bitten, battle scarred rogues were bad news and uninvited guests.  The odious orange ogres were becoming a nightly nuisance.  During their raids they pillaged, plundered, fought and pestered the womenfolk. 

The worst offender, Old Ugly was a pedophile.  He began stalking Tiggy, a girl young enough to be his great-great-great-great-great- great- granddaughter.  Flustered, addle-pated Tiggy, didn't know what to make of her scruffy old suitor.  Mama was no help in this situation because Mama was off carousing with suitors of her own.  Sister Blue couldn't help either.  She was off somewhere private, courting in a more lady like fashion.

For a week or two, I was treated to nightly concerts of howling and yowling.  I began to patrol my yard, ready to chase off the randy raiders.  Sometimes at midnight, poor Tiggy would pass through and I was able to offer her food.  The poor child was so rattled, she could barely stand still long enough to eat.  And then once she did, she'd be off again, with the ugly old orange cat in hot pursuit.

I was so traumatized by the week of terror, I developed a serious, long lasting aversion to orange cats. 

     

Emily

Either there was something special about this group of cats or I was seeing felines with new eyes.  They constantly amazed me with their intelligence and with something else.  At times, they were downright eerie.  I'd be doing something outdoors, think of one cat and suddenly that cat would appear.  During our interactions, an incredible kind of communication was happening, especially with Emily.

Every morning, she was waiting for me.  And every time I stepped out the door, she was there.  When I was busy indoors, sometimes I could feel her calling me.  The feeling would be so strong, I'd have to stop what I was doing and go out.  And there she'd be, wanting to play.

Christmas was approaching fast and I was preoccupied with the things that preoccupy humans during that season.  The day before the first snow storm the kittens would ever experience, Emily seemed quieter and more serious.  Her somber mood lasted throughout the day.

That night I had a strange dream.  I found myself walking in an unfamiliar place .  I heard something and turned to find Emily following me.  I picked her up and we continued on.  And then in an unearthly, very high pitched little voice, she began to talk.  In the dream, I was thrilled at such a breakthrough in communication.  As we walked, she chattered on about different things.  The only thing I remember well about the conversation was that she hated trucks, really hated them.  Excitement turned to dread when we encountered two of my recently deceased family members.  After visiting with them a few minutes, Emily and I went on to another unfamiliar place.  To get in, I had to climb over obstacles while still holding the cat.  When it was time to return, Emily only came back part of the way with me.  And then she stopped.  And I was pushed into different place.

I awoke that morning knowing Emily was gone.  Hoping I was wrong, I rushed out.  Mama, Wolf, Tiggie and Blue were waiting for me.  But Emily was missing.  I fed the waiting cats and then took off in the snowstorm to search for her.  In the dream, she loathed trucks.  Fearing one had hit her, I searched the roadsides.  I never found her.  She never came back.

Emily was special and I loved her.  Her loss was devastating and I was furious at myself for not grabbing or cat-napping her while I had the chance.  But our friendship was based on trust and from the start, I had sensed I would lose her.

That night, Wolf, Blue and Tiggie waited for me on the porch.  Sadly, I set their food down.  Instead of eating, they just sat and stared expectantly at me with shining eyes.
I pointed at their food.  "Eat, guys."
Instead of eating, they just kept staring at me.  And then Blue slapped Wolf.  Wolf tackled Blue.  Tiggie ran up my leg.  I peeled Tiggie off my leg, grabbed a pussy willow switch and the nightly rumble began. 

I would get to know and love the remaining three kittens as well as I knew and loved Emily.        

 

Play time

Mama's pregnancy advanced.  At six or seven months old, the four kittens were on their own.  Mama's appetite seemed to be increasing and she would drop by several times a day to be fed.  The kittens' routine seemed to be one that Mama had instilled into them.  In the morning, I would find them on the porch waiting for breakfast.  During the day they would wander off for parts unknown.  And every afternoon, as precisely as if they were all wearing watches, they would return at five to hang around the rest of the night.

After they had been fed supper, they would hunt and play for a while.  When it got dark and I heard them crashing around on the little porch, I knew it was rumble time.  I would go out and battle them with Wolf's fish or one of the remaining pussy willow branches. The little cats' crazy antics were so funny, I enjoyed the games as much as they did.

Emily started the ground games.  One night I was smoking on the other porch, the screened one.  I heard a strange noise and discovered Emily trying to get in at me through a screen.  I opened the door to let her in but she was scared of the door and just wouldn't come in the easy way.  Instead, she kept working her way back and forth along the front of the porch, trying to push her way through the screen.  Tiggie decided Emily's strange new game looked fun and joined her.  So now there were two of them trying to push their way through the screens.  To entice them in through the door, I had to drag a stick around for them to pounce at.  But every time they heard a little noise, the pair would panic and bolt out the door.  And then the little screwballs would go back to pushing on the screens.  Rather than have them destroy the screens, I went out with them to continue the game on the ground.  Tired of the stick game, I began throwing acorns for them to chase and before long, Wolf and Blue had joined in.
 
The games continued throughout the fall but the sibling rivalry seemed to be getting more intense.  Tiggie was very alpha and Emily seemed to fear her.  This was understandable.  Unpredictable Tiggie seemed to be missing quite a few marbles.  And Wolf wasn't taking any crap from any of them, not even Tiggie.  He began to take over the games.  I had observed the kittens descending the steep stairs with their little tails in the air long enough to know that Wolf was the only male. 

A pregnant mother cat and three half grown female felines.  A saner wiser person would have been getting nervous.  Not me.  I was worried about Emily.  Winter was coming.  And I kept trying to entice Emily into the house.  My big mistake was thinking I had time to convince her gently.   

Mama's tough love

When you're handing out free food, word gets around.  Fast.  Go to that house over there and stare at the magic door.  If you do it right, some idiot will come out and feed you.

Other cats were now stopping by to steal food.  Raccoons, skunks and opossums were getting in on the act, too.  

In spite of Mama's bad disposition, I felt protective of her and the kids.  Some nights, I'd hear growling or crashing on the porch and rush out to find Mama fending off a raccoon or opossum.  Those marauders I would chase off.  But not the skunks.  It's not wise to argue with skunks.

Then other adult cats began calling on Mama.  Fearing they would hurt the kittens, I chased them off.  But they kept coming back.  And soon, flirtatious glances advanced to indecent acts in front of the kittens.  This behavior got old real fast.   

There's nothing like watching the way male cats behave to bring out the latent feminist in a person.  Mama sure went for the dirt bags.  They'd rough her up and steal her food.  Fortunately, after a week or so, the cats stopped coming around.  Things quieted down and seemed to go back to normal.  But not for long.

Until the unsavory suitors showed up, Mama was a model mother.  Tainted by their bad influence, she began to change.  For a while longer she played and hunted with her kittens.  Then she began to take trips without them.  And when she returned at feeding time, if the kids tried to greet her, she would hiss and smack them.  One night, I was hanging on the porch with the kittens when Mama came up to dine.  Excited to see their mother, the kittens rushed up to her.  She hissed, growled and cuffed them away.  After she finished eating, she started to leave.  The kittens tried to follow.  Snarling, she turned and hissed at them some more.  The  dejected kittens fell back and watched their mother leave them.  A couple of them began to howl.  Their distress at Mama's rejection was eerily human.

The reason for Mama's behavior change was soon obvious.  Mama was pregnant.         

             




 

Communication and copy cats

After a couple months of coaxing, only one of the five cats, Emily, was friendly.  And I was really getting attached to her.  But sometimes when she came charging across the yard to greet me, I would be overcome with a strange feeling of loss. 

So in spite of a family member's allergies, I began devising strategies to lure Emily into the house.  For some reason, it felt really important that she came indoors willingly.  One of my strategies to entice her in was the pen game.  Since she had a weakness for pens, I would place a pen in the open doorway and wait.  She would dart in, steal the pen and run back out.  Then I'd have to chase her to get it back.  But nothing, not even a pen, would make her step in further than the thresh-hold.

Perhaps because these cats weren't used to humans, they tried to treat me as an intelligent being.  They could communicate with each other by eye contact, sort of telepathically.  Obviously they overestimated human intelligence because they would also try it on me. 

The most noticeable silent communication occurred between Emily and Wolf.  From opposite ends of the porch, a look would pass between the pair, and suddenly they would both attack the same toy or sibling or move to the same spot.  From a distance, Mama would try the look thing on me.  I could feel the intensity of her concentration, but all lot of it went over my head.  Emily took pity on the dumb human.  When I didn't understand through eye contact, she had other ways way to communicate.  Often she would physically demonstrate what she was trying to say.  Even more remarkable, somehow the kitten could understand me.  An eerie bond was developing between us.

While I was studying the cats, apparently they were studying me.  When Mama walked up the porch steps, I would talk to her.  And she would stop the usual three feet away and stare at me.  And sometimes, she would imitate me by moving her mouth.  I've only seen one other cat, Tommy, do this.

Years later, a select group of Mama's great grandchildren communicate with each other by eye contact in.the same way.  They have looks they give each other that are readily understood.  Less successfully, they try it with me.  They'll jump up so that we are eyeball to eyeball and stare intently into my eyes.  Unfortunately, most of the time, the only message I pick up is something like, "Hey!  Hey, Stupid!  Listen to me!  Can't you hear me?  Hey, Stupid!"  Then the poor frustrated cat will have to find another way to get his or her point across.

Our parents and grandparents passed down folk 'sayings'.  Nobody knows who started them but everybody knows these 'sayings' and uses them.  Many of the 'sayings' come from a time when people were more in touch with nature.  Even so, some of these 'sayings' are a little harsh.  "The world is going to the dogs" has negative connotations.  Worse is, "It's a dog eat dog world."  Well, if "Dog is man's best friend," and dog has cannibalistic tendencies, that doesn't say much for humanity.  I know that dogs like to roll in nasty things.  They also eat disgusting things and sniff butts, but dogs don't eat other dogs.  Or do they?  Claims that this one and that one "fight like cats and dogs" make more sense.  Unless cats and dogs have been raised together, dogs tend to eat cats.  Understandably, cats don't like this.  If dogs eat cats and cats don't appreciate it, it is understandable that this difference of opinion would spark disagreements. 

And then there is the 'saying', "copy cats".  Why do people blame copying on cats?  Actually, there is sound logic behind this 'saying'.  In the gadget-less dark ages, people must have watched their barn cats.

In a group of feral cats, there is usually a braver cat, kind of a trail blazer.  The rest seem to watch and follow.  If they aren't sure if something is safe, they will watch the leader.  And once the leader does something and survives, the rest will follow... within reason.  And just like little kids, if one cat has something, the others want it.  Occasionally, this greed backfires.

I wish I had filmed this weird incident.  One night at feeding time, I stepped out on the porch and set a dish of food down.  As usual, Emily rushed past the dish to greet me.  I knelt down and began patting her.  Tiggie suddenly decided she wanted whatever Emily was getting and rushed over.  She crowded Emily, trying to shove her aside.  I took advantage and for the first time, I patted Tiggie.  Tiggie took this for about a  minute.  And then she backed up in horror, realizing what she had done.  She spent another minute thinking about it.  Then she decided maybe humans weren't so bad, and came back for more. And this time I even tugged on her white-tipped tail.

Morning and night, after Mama and her children ate, I would return to rumble with the kids. Often I would drag a pussy willow branch around while they chased and attacked it.  Then I introduced a new toy, a stuffed fish attached to a fishing pole by a stretchy string.  Wolf took one look at that fish and fell in madly in love with it.  He took over the game and decided I was his best bud.  But Madam Blue was still not convinced.  Whenever I put a hand near her, she would slap me.  It was going to take more than a stuffed fish to win her over.

Just as the cats wanted to treat me like an intelligent being, I wanted to pet them like one would pet domestic cats.  Since the cats were running the show, the human had a lot to learn.                   

Blue and Peeping Tommy

Quality of life issues. Sorry, "humane" organizations.

People live with animals and call them pets.  A cat, dog, or whatever, is taken into a human home where it is then taken for granted.  In typical human fashion, the animal is rarely given a choice in the matter.  True, the animal is well loved and treated like a family member or like a little human.  But what does a person really know about his or her "pet"?  What would that "pet" be doing and what would it be like if it wasn't living with you?

Cats and dogs can and do survive without human intervention.  The packs of coy dogs that roam rural areas are notorious for causing trouble.  That's not surprising.  What else would you expect from a bunch of mere dogs!  But the flocks of feral cats are another story.

 Since I've never hung out with a pack of coy dogs, I can't speak for them.  But I have observed and hung out with a flock of feral felines.  And I am impressed.  On their own, cats are magnificent beings, more intelligent than humans.  Throw humans into the wild with no resources and most of us wouldn't do nearly as well.  Look what happens to us during power failures.  Without our modern conveniences, most of us are sunk.

Sure, life can be tough for feral cats, especially in winter.  But how they love life.  They are totally different creatures than the cats trapped indoors.  Ever notice how much your house cat sleeps?  It's boredom.  When cats are allowed to roam, they are very active.  They're busy with places to go, prey to hunt and general mischief to get into.  Unfortunately, sometimes the mischief gets them.  And even more unfortunate, cats are also prey. 

Several of my tamer feline victims of mischief and predators are now confined indoors.  But without a doubt, given a choice, my beloved hostages would choose freedom.  And sometimes, I feel really guilty for depriving them of their freedom.  They were free for a while and they know what they're missing.  And they get really frustrated sometimes.  But every time my jailer mentality starts to waiver, I think of the hellacious vet bills and heart break their freedom has cost me.

The animal supply store I frequent the most has a little room filled with glassed in cages.  The cages are always crammed with cats, sometimes several cats to a cage.  On the glass observation windows are little tags.  The little tags state the cats' names and approximate ages, and often say, "Rescued from a terrible feral life," or some reasonable facsimile.  In their cramped cages, the cats lie listlessly, beside litter boxes, with barely enough room to move.  Sometimes, the newest prisoners show a little spirit, but it is soon broken.  And I have to wonder if those cats would choose the way of life being forced upon them.

When the first feline squatters appeared on my property, I had this naive notion that humans and feral cats could peacefully co-exist on the same spot of land.  And it seemed to work out great for a while.  I supplied food and shelter.  They supplied companionship, provided endless education and entertainment, and the ubiquitous mouse heads on the door step and chipmunk carcasses on the lawn.  But the feral herd soon overwhelmed me.  In less than two years, I was trying to peacefully coexist with over twenty cats!  The rate at which the little varmints reproduced was a terrifying thing to behold.  Finally, for reasons of self preservation, I had to override their free will.  I had to trap or capture every every single feline on my property to deprive each one of the ability to reproduce.  Whew!  That's done, and hopefully I'll never have to trap another cat. 

Without the ability to reproduce, my herd is dwindling.  I'll continue to do everything I can to make their lives easier.  And they will continue to provide me with dead moles, frogs, mouse heads, etc.  No doubt, they will also continue to use my flower pots as port-o-pottys.  But those remaining wild cats are welcome to stay for the rest of their lives. 

P.S.:  There is one exception to the no trapping rule.  If I ever move, I'll trap them and bring them along.               

    

In the doghouse

As a rule, cats don't have much use for dogs.  And there's a reason for this.  Dogs are smelly, disagreeable creatures that bark, bite, and chase cats.  But bad as dogs are, their owners are worse.  Dog owners are loud, smelly, disagreeable creatures that let their vicious pets wreak havoc on neighbors and the neighborhood.  Still, to every dark cloud there is a silver lining.  Because there are dogs, there are dog houses. 

Mama and her kittens began hanging around my house in July.  In late August, I began to worry about what would happen to the cats when the weather got cold.  If I'd had a barn, they could have sheltered in the barn.  Unfortunately, I didn't have a barn.  And even to me, it seemed bit excessive to get a barn for five stray cats. After much thought, I hit upon what I thought was a good solution.  I dragged my husband down to a place that made furniture and showed him the doghouses.  After rolling his eyes, he pointed out a couple small, fairly inexpensive models.  I wasn't having any of that.  Since there were five cats, four of them still growing, I needed a big dog house.  And after much whining on my part, Hubby gave in and helped me load a monstrosity into the truck. 

We got the thing home and disagreed on its placement.  My husband wanted to put it out of sight in the back yard.  I wanted to put the dog house on the little porch so I could keep an eye things.  After a vigorous discussion, we wrestled the eyesore of a doghouse up the steep stairs and onto the porch.  Once we had it situated, I realized the interior decor of the dog house was unacceptable.  So I went shopping and found rugs, big dog mattresses and blankets. 

After the third or fourth time I saw Mama entering the doghouse with a dead rodent, it occurred to me that  hay would have been a better bedding choice.  And although the big doghouse was not a particularly attractive addition to the porch, it came in handy.  When the kittens were on the doghouse roof, they were closer to the porch light.  This was good because moths like to hang out around the porch light.  And the kittens loved catching moths.  The roof was also a good place for the kittens to sit and watch the opossums that had started coming around to steal their food.          

The Perils of Being Feral

As anyone, especially any teenager, knows, there are benefits to running wild.  There are also disadvantages.  Mama's hunting trips were endangering her children and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.  After all, she was the boss.

Ghost met an untimely end during one trip.  Tiggie came back with a damaged eye after another.  The eye was glazed over and probably sightless.  And because she was such a fiendish little feral, I couldn't get hold of the little spitfire to help her. 

And then a few trips later, Blue returned dragging one of her back legs.  But when I tried to catch her, I couldn't.  The best I could do was place food and water near the brush pile she was hiding in.  Fortunately, within a week or two, she was back to her imperious little self.

And Mama seemed to be changing her game plan.  When they went off on excursions now, a watcher or place holder was left behind.  Frequently, the watcher was Emily.  This was okay with me because I was smitten with that kitten.  And it seemed to be mutual.  As soon as I'd step out the door, Emily would charge out of hiding to greet me.  Sometimes she'd announce herself by sharpening her claws in my leg.  Yes, there were double standards at play here.  Although she could use my leg as a scratching post, I wasn't allowed to pick her up.  I could pet her and scratch her chin, but if I got too fresh and tried to grab her, she would punish me by staying out of reach for a couple days.  And since I had worked so hard to gain her trust, I didn't want to jeopardize it.

The other three kittens still had not succumbed to my considerable charm.  Although they no longer growled at me, and they stalked me around the yard, a hands off policy remained in place.  Naturally, Mama would still growl.  At times it got on my nerves but I tried not to take it personally.  She was only trying to protect her children.  But somewhere, sometime, some human must have really abused Mama.  She was truly terrified of people and never got over it. 

Once between litters, Mama came to my door by herself.  I stepped out with food.  She stood at the top of the stairs, maybe a foot away from me.
 I placed the food down and said, "Mama, can I pat you?"
I swear she understood me.  Frozen in place, she began to visibly shake.  I think she would have let me, but she was so scared, I didn't have the heart.             

Tiggie's death dance

By now I had figured out who the boss was.  It certainly wasn't me.  Emily continued to kiss my hand during the morning feedings.  The others would watch but stayed back.  Occasionally, I would try to put my hand on her.  She would shrink away and give me a reproachful look, but she didn't run. 

Meanwhile, the kittens began to remodel the porch.  There were various things on the porch that became toys.  The favorites were a pot of dry pussy willow branches, a snow shovel and a broom.  At night I'd hear thumps and crashes.  In the morning, the pot would be tipped, branches would be scattered about and the broom and shovel would be knocked over. 

I began poking at the kittens with the branches.  To Mama's disgust, they would play with me.  But they wouldn't allow pats.  Sometimes I'd scatter catnip on the porch floor and watch out a window.  Reserved and serious Mama would loose her dignity and roll around like a fool. 

But Mama wasn't a fool.  If she caught me watching, she would glare and remove herself and children from my line of sight.  And if she caught me spying during her war games, she would take the games elsewhere.  She didn't miss much.  Once she even caught me spying out a second story window.  But I had my ways and was privileged to see some very strange sights.  Mama was teaching her kids.  There were chasing games and stalking games.  The night before a hunt she would psych them up by racing around and chasing her own tail.  Once she got them worked up, she would sit back and watch them scurry around like lunatics.  The lilac bushes often took the brunt of their frenzy.  The way the kittens would climb and batter those bushes caused this lilac loving human to cringe.

Not so pretty were the times Mama would catch her children live prey to play with.  Chipmunks were  frequent victims.  At first, the chipmunks and kittens were about the same size.  And the kittens would freak out.  They would skittishly prance around the scary but scared to death creature in what I came to think of as their death dance.  The cats didn't always win the battles, though.  Once Mama dove into a clump of bushes and jumped back yowling.  Apparently, the chipmunk had bitten her.  

And then Tiggie death danced the wrong victim.  One afternoon, from a window, I watched the war games.  Under Mama's supervision, the kittens were stalking and tackling each other.  Every now and then Mama would interrupt to correct their technique.  After one such interruption, she moved back to resume watching.  Suddenly, little Tiggie reared up on her hind legs. While waving her front paws up in the air, she proudly pranced on two legs towards her mother.  The look of disbelief on Mama's face was priceless.  Tiggie reached her mother and lurched menacingly above her, still waving her arms in the air.  Mama watched in disgust for another minute and then reached a paw out to slap Tiggie across the face.  A sadder wiser Tiggie  sulked for a few minutes before racing back to terrorize her siblings.            

The meat games continued.  And by now, the kittens distinct personalities were really shining through.  Although Emily was the smallest, she was the bravest.  She would come very close to get her treats.  Fat little Blue would park herself about three feet away from me, plant her enormous white feet firmly in front of her, and regally wait.  The treat had to drop directly in front of her or she couldn't be bothered.  Wolf would watch the others to make sure it was safe before he ventured out.  Ghost didn't participate in the games.  He hung back with Mama.  And there was no predicting what Tiggie would do.  One time she'd rob a sibling.  Another time, she might charge my feet and veer at the last moment.

And then the first tragedy occurred.  Mama took the children out on a hunt.  Ghost came back a day later than the rest.  And after the next hunt, Ghost never came back.

Training the human feeding machine

When I began feeding Mama and her five children, it was reasonable to assume that I was just feeding a stray feline family.  Period.  I didn't realize that when I put that first dish before my future masters, I had enrolled in a rigorous feline sponsored "human-training" program.  With iron double paws hidden by velvety fur, Mama brainwashed me and took over my life and property.  Sad to say, it didn't take her very long. 

Dazzled by her big soulful eyes and adorably destructive little children, I never even saw it coming.  I suppose there were warning signs.  Every morning, I leapt up at the crack of dawn to look for my new furry friends.  On good days, I would be greeted by growls and hisses.  On the dreaded hunting trip days, my walkway would be empty.

After the hunting trip, the weary ravenous felines would recuperate by lounging around my yard.  One of their favorite spots was an old picnic table parked at the edge of a clump of woods.  This was convenient because out the window I could covertly watch Mama training her children for the next hunt.

When I went on a human hunting trip to the market, upon my return, the feline family would be artistically arranged in wait on the front steps.  Their baleful greeting stares always warmed my heart.  Early on in the relationship between Mama and I, glaring philosophical differences in our child raising theories became apparent.  According to Mama, cars were good and people were bad.  To accommodate Mama's odd ideas, visitors' car windows had to be rolled up.  And upon departure, visitors had to blow car horns until the coast was clear.  I also had issues with Mama dragging her brood back and forth across our busy street.  But since I couldn't get within six feet of her, discussions were pointless.  If I could have gotten closer, perhaps I could have pointed out that it wasn't the damn cars feeding her.  It was a human.

Before long, I was well-trained enough to forbid anyone to use the front door when my part- time cats were in residence.  As a reward, on rainy days, the cats would allow me to step out the front door to place food on the porch.  Naturally, they would copy their mother by growling and hissing at me. 

There is just something so wrong about tiny big eyed balls of fur growling, hissing and spitting at you.  But Mama wouldn't listen to reason.  And since she wanted to play dirty...well, two could play that way.  Thus began the meat games.  Several times a day, I would go out and sit on the steps with a handful of meat.  While Mama glared in disapproval, I would toss pieces of meat a few feet away from me.  Kittens being kittens, they had to investigate the flying objects.  Their curiosity would be rewarded with snacks.  The thing is, after a few minutes, I would toss the snacks a little closer to me.  Before I left, I would toss some in Mama's vicinity.  By spying, I discovered she would investigate and indulge.  But only after I left.

Progress was depressingly slow.  One day as I sat out in the sweltering sun tossing meat, my husband came out to offer me some unwanted advice. 
He said, "Why don't you give up?  It's not going to work.  You could be made of meat and those cats won't come any closer."
My grateful response to his encouraging words was, "Go away.  You're scaring the cats."
And it was true.  As long as I was alone, they would hover within a few feet of me.  But if anybody else approached, those cats were gone.

Finally, one morning, there was a breakthrough.  My feline family had just returned from a long hunting trip.  I cautiously stepped onto the walkway.  Three feet away, the growling hissing clump of cats hovered hungrily.  As I set the plate down, the smallest black and white kitten, Emily, darted out of the group and lunged at my hand.  Startled, I froze and waited.  She put her little nose on my hand, backed away and sat down to watch me, just out of reach.  Emily had kissed my hand!  That was the first of many hand kisses and the beginning of a brief but beautiful relationship.  For the rest of the day, I was walking on air.  
                          

From extreme stupidity to EXTREME CATTITUDE

It takes a special kind of moron to go from no cats to twenty-something cats in less than two years.  I am one of those special morons.  And this is my cautionary tail....

All that is required to get into such a predicament is one well-meaning but stupid human and one unspayed feral female cat.  Next thing you know, there is an epic feline population explosion on your hands.

There are several so-called do-gooder organizations that vigorously solicit monetary donations for animal rescue purposes.  Right.  Just try to get any kind of help from most of those groups.  It's like trying to pull money out of thin air.  It ain't gonna happen.   Call the numbers of those "rescue organizations" and explain that you have a couple dozen feral cats living on your property.  Some of them will actually call you stupid and snicker audibly as they hang up.  Best of all, until solicitation time, it is guaranteed you'll never hear from those people again.

There are good and caring people out there, but they are few and far between.  Do the research before you donate.

And if you decide to feed a stray cat, prepare to make a commitment.  Or, get yourself committed.     

    

It Could Happen to Anyone, Couldn't It?

It could happen to anyone.  One day you hear funny noises emanating from under your little porch.  You step closer and peer through the holes of the lattice.  You see movement.  Something black and white.  You jump back in fear.  SKUNK!  But it didn't spray, so you bravely step closer and peer again. Now something is growling.  And there's more than one of them.  And they're all growling now.  And hissing.  But wait a minute.  Skunks aren't grey and tiger striped.  What is lurking under the porch is a cat and her five kittens.  And Mama is very angry at the invasion of her privacy.  So you leave them alone for a few minutes.  And then wonder if they are hungry.  So you go back with some meat and toss a few pieces through the lattice.  And a pile of growling, hissing kittens falls upon the meat.  So you throw a few more pieces.  Then you run to the store and buy a bunch of cat food.  And before you know it, you're hooked.

I put that first dish of cat food down and called them.  Naturally, they wouldn't come.  I walked away and hid on the big porch to spy on them.  Eventually they came out and devoured the food.  Three of the kittens were black and white.  Two were grey tigers.

Before long, I was trained.  Three times a day, Mama and children would appear on my walkway and wait several feet away.  As they growled and hissed at me, I would place a dish of food down and walk away.  I knew my place.

Soon the family began hanging around my yard.  Mama had a lot of rules I was expected to obey.  For instance, when she trained her kids to hunt, I wasn't supposed to watch.  If she caught me, she would take them off elsewhere.   I resorted to spying on them.  And at every feeding time, the growling and hissing continued. 

I began to learn Mama's schedule.  If she held war games at dusk, they were going off on a hunting trip.  They would always come back the third day.  The first time they disappeared, I was heartbroken.  I figured they went home.  But since they always came back tired and starving, maybe they didn't have a home.  Homeless or not, when I brought them food, they would still growl and hiss at me.  Their lack of appreciation of my service was demoralizing at times.

They began to take over the porch.  I didn't mind.  It was easier to spy on them.  Within a couple weeks of spying, I could tell the kittens apart and their personalities were becoming distinct.  And even though they still growled and hissed at me, I decided to name my part time cats.  Mama was already named.  Since I didn't know the kittens' genders, the names had to be unisex.  The dark grey and white one with the big white feet and extra toes became Blue.  The bigger, furtive, dark grey and white one became Wolf.  The little tiger with the big eyes became Tiggie.  The paler tiger became Ghost.  But then I went and broke the unisex name rule for the smallest black and white cat.  She seemed so feminine, I called her Emily.

Even though the cats were named, they were still downright unfriendly.  All the growling and hissing at feeding time was really getting to me.  I became a woman obsessed.  I  was going to tame those damn cats it was the last thing I did.