Desire to Keep Strays Fueled by Natural Affection for Felines

 

She appeared on my mother’s carport one late spring day in May: a nomad, a transient, a copper-colored gypsy feline. Unbeknownst to Mom, initially, she had brought with her a tiny surprise, in the form of her own miniature-me: an orange kitten that resembled her, except his hue was a little brighter and his underside was stippled white.

We discovered him one afternoon. As we stood beside the storage room door talking, I heard the faintest whimper of a meow emanating from inside the room. The small female cat, which didn’t appear to be even a year old, stood underfoot looking up at us imploringly.

“There’s a kitten in there,” I told Mom, who hadn’t heard his high-pitched cries.

We went inside to try to locate it and discovered that his protective mother had placed him deep inside a tall, thin box that houses a card table and folding-chair set Mom uses only at Thanksgiving and Christmas for family gatherings. I reached deep inside the box and grabbed that soft, tender ball of downy fur and pulled him from the clutches of the narrow cardboard.

Instantly, I was in love. Since I couldn’t take him home with me due to my landlord’s prohibition of pets, I knew my only hope of keeping the pair was Mom, who lives on a cat-friendly acre of land in the country.

However, she has been widowed since my father’s death 18 years ago and has sworn over the last several years that she loves her independent, increasingly uncomplicated lifestyle. She has no one, save herself, or nothing for which she must provide daily care. Therefore, I had to convince her of my proposal. I promised to pay for all the upkeep if she would simply provide the daily sustenance for cute little pair of cats for me.

I’ve always loved cats. I like dogs, too, but cats intrigue me. Cats aren’t inherently loyalists; one must sometimes work for their affection. They tend to like their space, and they’re much quieter than dogs. They are typically cleaner as well, meticulously grooming after each meal. In other words, their character aligns more squarely with mine. I’m quiet, like solitude, am not easily swayed, and am somewhat obsessive compulsive about cleanliness—except I bathe each morning, not after meals.

I am also artistically bent, and I suppose it’s a common stereotype about artists and cats. The Egyptians created artistic renderings of cats in sculpture and drawings. The inscription on the Great Tomb at Thebes portrays their reverence: "Thou art the Great Cat, the avenger of the Gods, and the judge of words, and the president of the sovereign chiefs and the governor of the holy Circle; thou art indeed...the Great Cat."

Perhaps one of the most modern examples of a well-known artist enamored with cats was Ernest Hemingway, with his clowder of cats that populated his Key West home, the descendents of which can still be seen today. I hope one day to visit.

Until then, I now have my own pair of fuzzy companions. I named the female Blanche DuBois after one of my favorite literary characters, the faded Southern belle from Tennessee Williams’ play “A Streetcar Named Desire.” I named her kitten Winston Churchill—not for any particular reason, except he looked like a “Winston.”

Blanche’s demeanor is quite reserved, as she shies away from interaction with most people. Winston, on the other hand, is much more sociable. In fact, he’s attention-hungry, scurrying around my feet every time I go visit Mom.

His favorite activity is playing with a small stuffed gorilla attached to a string. The top end is attached to a stick. Still very much the playful kitten at almost half a year old, he will jump high in the air to retrieve the toy, and once he has it in his clutches, he commences growling and hissing as if the item were some offending menace to him.

I think Mom has grown somewhat attached to the pair as well, despite her initial reservations about keeping them. Sometimes when I visit, her hands are marked with cuts or scratches accidently inflicted by Winston during play.

But who couldn’t love them? As the Italian proverb says, “Happy is the home with at least one cat.” Likewise, various other cultures have their own maxims regarding cats. The Irish say, "Beware of people who dislike cats." And I am, although my favorite saying hails from the French: “The dog may be wonderful prose, but only the cat is poetry.” I tend to agree.