We have always gotten our cats from a rescue organizations. They have come from whatever life of distress that put them in a shelter to our home, which not to brag, but is a life extraordinaire. The kind of life that I want to come back and live.
My cats all have had a story to tell because I don’t like kittens. I love adult cats. I am shelter’s dream because I am not attracted for even a few minutes of entertainment. I all hear is screaming curtain climbers.
I had a calico cat that was five-years-old when I got her. My “pseudo sister” who lived me at the time always told me that when she left she was taking my cat with her. She was a masterful lover who quickly became entangled in your heart strings. She was everyone’s friend and such a looker.
Joseph and Fred came within six months of each other. Joseph was a big tough British Shorthair, who was savvy and smart. He loved deep men’s voices and when the men would gather at our place to play cards. Even the guys who claimed not to like cats could be found with a hand on his head while betting on a good hand. What made them special is Fred was slow, not physically, but mentally he just didn’t get it. (Pick your favorite saying about knives, elevators, or light bulbs). Joseph was his protector, helper, and provided a lifetime of guidance. Joseph always made sure Fred was properly groomed, pulling his head down and checking his ears. The slept together and were best friends.
Mocha, a Maine Coon, was a child’s pet for five years. She endured the unconditional love of dress up, tea parties and being the playmate of a little girl. Unfortunately a blended family brought a highly asthmatic boy and the cat had to go. It broke the family’s heart and I hope that the boy became the wonderful friend, and protector an older brother can be. Mocha became our girl, moving with us across the country and back two times to five homes, never missing a beat. She always preferred being petting on her stomach and the perfect relaxing mode was laying on her back with her arms straight out, leftovers from years of accepting love little girl style. Mocha was a cat who never used her nails on anything in play, another life lesson she came to us with. It was only in her twilight years that she would lay on her stomach, I think her bones were starting to protest.
Our current cat was 9 months old when we took her home from the shelter. She had spent six of the coldest weeks of the winter on the streets of Butte America fending for herself. Her owner turned her out to the elements when she was sent to the big house. One look of at her young face told me she had years of hardship under her belt and she should come home with me. Abby loves my husband and will go out of her way to avoid me. She has not forgiven women for her hardship. She loves to watch birds through the window, but an open door holds NO attraction for her. She lives in a house with toys bought just for her, though her preference is for the dog’s toys. She is a groupie of my husband, hanging on him, following him, never getting enough attention from him, but never afraid to let him know she wants more. Her meals no longer require her young wits, but are provided twice a day. Her life is so good that we buy drugs (catnip) for her pleasure.
I think any cat person and many others who claim not to be cat people would agree. I am not sure I want to live the life my cats have lived before they found their way to our home, but once they got there they live a carefree, healthy life. Life is good.