Kitty Cats

My girl has started fostering kittens.

This got me thinking about the cats in my life. For much of my childhood we had a fat orange cat reminiscent of Morris or Garfield. (How many of you remember Morris?)

But the cat that stands out most in my mind is one we had for only a short time. The way I recall it—which is subject to the vagaries of memory—is that my dad brought home this tiny little kitten, barely old enough to leave its mother. It was black with white feet. Such a tiny, adorable little thing. It had the run of the house, of course, and we girls loved to sleep with it. At first, this kitten was so tiny that it was cute and funny when it woke us up by pouncing on our closed eyelids when our eyeballs moved during REM sleep. That habit led to its name, Lester the Molester, which we said with a laugh. It wasn’t long, though, before LtM learned to stretch his little claws when jumping onto our eyeballs. We didn’t laugh then! You can understand why we did not have this cat for very long, although I honestly don’t know what happened to it. Which is probably a good thing.

The other cat I always remember didn’t belong to me or my family. One of my good friends in middle school had a young cat that I agree to look after while they went on vacation. This cat was easily identifiable by its scorched hair—it had somehow gotten into the oven once! That happened before they moved to our town (our state, actually). Keep that in mind. Anyway, one day after I’d cared for the cat I was nearly home and hear a meowing behind me. Sure enough, the cat had escaped and was following me home. Since it was a half mile to my friend’s house, I figured I’d better go home first and tell my mom so she’d know what was taking so long. I picked up the cat and headed home. About a block from my house, I ran into the new neighbor lady from across the street. “Oh, what a beautiful cat,” she said. “Can I hold it?” Of course I let her. Then she said, “I used to have a cat that looked just like this. It got lost in the flood. In fact, I think this IS my cat.” She held it out, looked it over, and decided, “Yes, it is. I’ll take it home now.” And she turned around and carried my friend’s cat away while I stood stupefied in the street gaping in disbelief. Finally I gathered myself together enough to run home and tell my mom what happened. Being a logical and practical person, she said, “Well, just go explain that you know it’s Lisa’s cat by the burnt fur.” So I did and have never, before nor since, been so thoroughly chewed out. The woman screamed at me for calling her a liar and I don’t know what all. After about 10 minutes she told me to “get out” and boy did I. (I should have much sooner, but was raised to have enough “respect” for my elders not to.) My friend never got her cat back.

I hope my girl has better success with her foster kitties.