As of the week after Thanksgiving, we are now the proud humans of another cat. Yes, for those counting, this makes four. Yes, I know I am well on my way to crazy cat lady status. But I swear, four is it. Really.
He's gorgeous, with thick, fluffy orange and white fur and the biggest, darkest green eyes you've ever seen. He's also sweet, and affectionate, and is absolutely fascinated by the giant box in the living room that shows moving pictures. Every night he plops down on the rug in front of it and watches television right along with the humans. Sometimes he falls asleep, though. You can't ever really tell when the impulse to nap will hit.
I had seen him around the neighborhood a couple of times, skittering under cars parked in my neighbor's driveway. One night in mid-October I came home to find him sitting outside my garage, with a look on his face that said, What took you so long? He looked hungry, and scared, so I brought him a bowl of cat food and left it outside. After about ten minutes he realized I wasn't going to throw a rock at him and so, tentatively, he made his way over, eventually purring and allowing me to pet that luxurious, thick fur. After a while I went inside, and he went his own way as well.
A few days later I walked into the kitchen to find this:
Now, I tell you, who can resist that face? I tried, believe me. The LOML said, "You can't be serious. We have three cats already. I know he's pretty and all, but come on, baby. He's a stray. He's probably infested with fleas, and mites, and who knows what." Logically, I knew he was right. So, I put out a bowl of food again, and left him out.
And he returned, of course. That cat chow business is much tastier and easier to catch than birds and mice. He came back, each and every day, to stare in the window just like that. Sometimes he'd come at night too, just sitting there, not meowing, just watching, just waiting.
And of course, bit by bit, day by day, my heart melted. Finally, on Thanksgiving Day, after he'd been sitting there for most of the afternoon, the LOML looked at me and said, "Yeah, ok, I know, he's going to be our new cat. He is pretty cute." I named him Ginger Cat, tentatively, for I loved the warm color of his coat, and we didn't know his sex at the time.
The next day, I bundled him up in the cat carrier and took him to the vet. Turns out he is a boy, neutered, and so possibly belonging to someone at one time. No tags, no microchip, just a ragged ear long-healed, which indicated he'd been on his own a good while. About two years old. In reasonably good health, minus the usual flea and mite issues and a slight ear infection, which was easily cleared up.
The first few days inside he was nervous, as can be expected, hiding from the other cats who COULD NOT BELIEVE I HAD THE NERVE TO BRING ANOTHER CAT IN HERE, hissing at him whenever an opportunity presented itself. Over time, though, as cats do, they got too lazy not to get along, so they began to accept him, and everything chilled out.
We originally named him Morris, because he looked so much like that famous television cat. Somehow, though, it just didn't fit. He didn't have a Morris personality. He wasn't aloof, or grumpy in the least. He was sweet, affectionate, and loved to play. He's a big boy, though, and his coloring and features seemed somehow more leonine than most house cats, so....Leo it became.
These days, Leo has adapted nicely to an indoor life. He spends a lot of his time doing this:
And alot of this:
And some of this:
And nowadays, when I open the door to the backyard, and I look behind me to make sure none of the cats get out, Leo is sitting there, in the middle of the kitchen floor, staring at me with a look that seems to say, Outside? No, thank you, human, I'm fine right here.
And so, four cats.
In related news, here is the downside to becoming so emotionally attached to your pets - when it's time to say goodbye. Neil Gaiman's cat Zoe is dying, and he wrote a beautiful blog post tribute to her here. Having lost two cats a couple of years ago, I can relate. Saying farewell is so hard.
Meet Leo
[No Title]
The hardest thing about writing for me is picking out a title for a piece. It's like pulling teeth. I agonize, choose, reject, choose again, reject, ad nauseum. Sometimes I leave it for days, hoping something inspiring comes my way. Most times I just pick the best of what I rejected. I'm not sure why this is, other than the fact that stories present themselves to me as ideas, feelings really, rather than concrete objects in my imagination. They don't really get worked out and sculpted until I've gotten my first impressions down on paper. After that it's a matter of refining. Finding a title for it means to condense all that emotion and investment down into a few words that are representative without being too revelatory. It's a pain.
Finished and sent off another story last night, but I'm starting to run out of markets. I have seven stories currently out, and many publications aren't accepting submissions at the moment. Therefore I think for the time being I am going to shift my attention back to the novel. She's been calling to me lately anyhow.
On a sad note, I lost my Pootus-cat over the weekend. My friend and companion for 15 years, he just up and left early Saturday morning. Due to his numerous health problems I can only surmise that he died somewhere near here, but I haven't been able to find him. I will miss him greatly - our conversations, his weird kitty idiosyncrasies, and his enduring love for tuna. Bye, Poot, old man. I love you, and I'll never forget you.
