Growing up, I spent every Sunday on my great-grandparents farm. There were cats. Lots and lots of cats. They’re called barn cats, because they shelter in barns and other outbuildings.
My grandmother and great-grandparents fed them table scraps — leftovers in modern lingo — and the cats drank from the stock tank and rain puddles. Their toilet needs were met with a 3-foot-by-3-foot hand-made sandbox, next to a ramshackle tractor “garage” or alternately, the entire 400 acre farm.
There was never a need to adopt any more kitties, because barn cats produce their own. I won’t share with you the rumored means of population control because I refuse to believe it of my sweet little grandmother and great-grandmother.
As a child, my view of cats was similar to my view of chickens. Necessary evils for farm living. The cats were much cuter, but neither grown female cats nor hens were interested in snuggling, and the males of both species were often mean.
Although why they should be is a mystery. All the table scraps, or corn in the case of roosters, you can eat, lots of room to shit, and a bevy of females with whom to conjugate and fertilize, plus protection from the elements. They should have been fat, happy, satiated and grateful. Instead, the roosters would chase us, and the male cats would hiss and spit.
Fast forward to when I became the crazy cat lady. I only have two, but it isn’t the number of cats that define you as crazy, it’s the level to which said cats run your life.
I blame it on my son, who has an inordinate amount of love for all cats everywhere. He clearly didn’t spend his formative years interacting with barn cats, like I did.
He spent them with one very special cat in particular, and a few more we adopted over the years to keep her company. She didn’t care for any of them she didn’t birth herself, and she only liked one of those. The only living being she deeply cared for was my son. She was a beautiful calico named Cassia.
. . .
So how did I become the crazy cat lady if he’s the cat lover?
My son’s little sweetheart died at the age of 14. He had her since he was 8 years old. She had been living with me while he was in college, and he hadn’t moved her into his apartment yet.
He didn’t want a replacement. She was the cat love of his life.
I had two dogs still, although they were aging. Plus, the six months of no kitty litter duties was a dream. A dream I had no intention of waking from.
One day after happy hour and a couple of margaritas, I stopped by PetSmart to pick up dog food. They were about to close, so I was in a hurry. But at the entrance was a collection of cages with cats. PetSmart sponsors adoptions of strays who’ve been rescued. Damn PetSmart.
Two of the cages held calicos. I stopped. One tiny calico was making a loaf, as cats are wont to do, in her cage. Her sleepy eyes ignored the tipsy lady admiring her. The other calico stood up, came close, reached through her cage to snag my sleeve, and pulled me into her.
I called my son to tell him I’d gotten him a kitten. Her name is Quila, short for the tequila that made me stop long enough for her to grab me. He promised to come pick her up the following weekend.
By the following weekend when he arrived, it was too late. She had claimed me from the beginning and continued claiming me by purring, patting my face, kneading my body, and generally being adorable. I told him he couldn’t have her. He responded, amazed,
Sigh.
Her “sister” Trixie Minx came along a couple of years later, after both dogs crossed the rainbow bridge at age 16, two years apart. Again, it was my son’s fault. He thought Quila was lonely, and he had a friend who fosters for the animal shelter. She had, among several grown cats, a litter of kittens who needed homes. By then it was too late for me. Quila had made me a cat person.
It hasn’t hurt that Trixie is the most affectionate cat I’ve ever known. And she plays fetch, which she taught me.
Which leads me back to the beginning. I am now a glorified playmate and snuggle pillow for two cats. They have the best food and the best litter. I wish I could say Pretty Litter pays me a commission, but they don’t. I just recommend it because — holy Cat Woman, Batman — it’s perfect.
It’s so perfect I can forget to change it out. It takes a long time and a lot for it to smell, especially when scooped fairly regularly.
Between travel and surgery, I hadn’t changed it out and it stank. Trixie reminded me loudly every morning, but I’d managed to ignore her for a couple of days. Today she was particularly adamant because their food bowl was empty, too.
That’s not why I’m a bad cat mom. I’m a bad cat mom because my first thought was,
Except then I’d have to put away their water fountain and close all the toilets. It’s the urine that causes litter to eventually smell if it isn’t changed. They may not be full-feral like the barn cats, but cats evolved to find water.
Truth is, Trixie isn’t feral at all. She was born into foster care. While Quila was feral for 5 months, she has adapted to domestic life quite well, thank you very much.
Neither they, nor you, nor my son, need to fear.
I will feed them, make sure they have access to water without them needing to resort to drinking from the toilets, throw the toys to play fetch, clip their nails, take them to the vet, provide flea and mosquito repellent and heartworm prevention meds on a regular basis, scoot over to make room for them in bed, open and close the patio door so they can sunbathe — over and over and over, etc., ad infinitum.
The patio is on the second story. Trixie’s dainty feet have never touched the ground. Quila thinks she wants freedom, until, on the few occasions she’s managed to dash out the front door, she quickly comes back yowling to be let back in.
It’s been a long journey from my childhood of chasing actual herds of feral cats on the farm, or feeding them table scraps in huge bowls outdoors, to being the handmaid to a couple of divas.
Those barn cats definitely wouldn’t think I was a bad cat mom. They might indeed think I was crazy.
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This post was previously published on New Choices.
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