My cat died about a month ago. It’s awful news. The kind of news you want to crawl up with for a week and beg to go away. The kind of news that can turn a six-year-old rerun of Scrubs into a tear-jerker, or a commercial featuring the Charmin Ultra-Soft bears into a poignant statement on the fragility of life. It is, to be sure, the sort of thing a comedy writer like me should not go anywhere near, but I wrote about her so often here that I felt it wrong to keep it to myself.

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Cheese, still adorable to the end.

Invariably, my most popular articles have been about Cheese the Cat. Whether I was coming out of the closet as a male cat lover, or narrating her opinions of my female callers, or nominating her to be the Pope of the Catholic Church, it was clear that the internet loved Cheese. Not as much as I did, of course, but she’s never licked your noses, so really what chance did you have? My Cheese writing reached so far that I was once stopped in a bar and asked, “Hey, you’re that guy who can’t stop writing about your cat, right?” Not necessarily the description that every joke writer is looking for, but I rushed home to tell Cheese about it anyway.

Is that weird, in light of that fact that she can’t speak English, or even, you know, Human Being? Probably, but I could tell she was proud, as she celebrated with a particularly vigorous licking of the butt. So vigorous it would’ve made even the Charmin bears blush. Besides, I’m pretty sure I rocketed past weird a long time ago. Such is the life of a man whose best friend is his kitty cat.

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Obviously Cheese doesn't type -- she just channeled herself through me. Tabby and antique typewriter by Shutterstock

So I felt I needed to write one more Cheese piece, but didn’t really know how to approach it. I started writing something more somber, but really that wasn’t my cat’s style. She had an attitude, and her favorite thing to do was sneeze in my food the moment I sat down to eat. So here now is Cheese’s Last Will and Testament, as she would’ve liked it written ...

I, Cheese, of sound mind and particularly impressive body for a cat my age, hereby declare this to be my last will and testament

I hereby bequeath the following belongings to the mentioned parties. Hope you’re not expecting any cash, because I blew the last of my savings on a raging tuna party before I passed on. Tough crap. Get a job, you flunkies.

To the Sun: God, I love you, Sun. So hot, so relentless. I loved to sit in you until I was warm to the touch, then sit there for an hour longer, just to let the birds know who’s boss.

To you, I leave the stupid collar he made me wear that was just as incessant as your heat. Little tip: If you meow a bunch he’ll take it off for an hour. He’s a total softy.

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Cheese soaks up the sunshine and ignores the birds.

To Cans of Mush: Only late in my life did I realize that you, Mush, were considered “food.” I mean, sure, I ate you, but I’m a friggin’ cat. I’ll eat a bug if you let me, that doesn’t make it haute cuisine.

To you, I leave my beloved turkey slices, just so you know what real food is supposed to taste like. I hear in heaven the roads are paved with turkey slices and mouthfuls of houseplant. Side note: Stop pretending you have flavors. Chicken & Salmon Pate? Please. More like Salty Mush Combined With Other Salty Mush in a different color can.

To My Litterbox: We had some good together times, brotha. Remember when he tried to train me to use the actual toilet? Humans, am I right? I leave you the greatest gift of all: the absence of pee. Enjoy!

To My Brown Blanket: Blanket, you were always there to hide under when threatening events occurred, like the visit of a repairman or rain. I leave you clumps of fur that will probably never be cleaned, because let’s be honest, he’s not exactly a neat freak.

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Brown Blanket, you were good to me.

To the Expression “the Cat’s Out of the Bag”: That’s messed up. You ever put me in a bag, I’ll rip your face off. I’m not leaving you anything.

To the Neighbor with the Purple Flowers: It WAS me eating your flowers every weekend and then throwing up purple stuff next to them. Brian totally lied. Like I said, total softy! To you, I leave an earnest apology, and the heartfelt promise that it was worth it every time.

To the Bathtub: I just don’t get you, Bathtub. You’re filled with water? Do you know how awful water is? It’s so ... wet. And awful. And wet. Sometimes I’d see him lying in you and just meow hysterically at the insanity of it all. Who lies in water? Freaks, that’s who. I leave you a towel to dry yourself off, for god’s sake.

To Dogs: I leave to you an extended middle finger of the paw, motherf’ers. Extended middle finger of the paw.

To Other Cats: See above. Also, hiss.

To My Readers: Thank you for liking his articles and making him think he had anything to do with it. It was sweet of you, but we both know I was sitting on his lap for every word he ever wrote. The best bits were all Cheese, baby. And did I get a share of the profits? No, I did not. Unless ear scratches and talking in a baby voice became US currency all of a sudden.

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Cheese didn't enjoy bathtubs, but she always dug the faucet.

To Him: I know you’re sad right now. That you’ve probably been crying all week. And that you can’t imagine doing any of the things we did together by yourself. But it’ll be okay. You’ll get another cat soon, and you guys can watch Shark Tank together, and cuddle in bed all day, and write your silly nonsense while she curls up happily on your sweatpant-covered lap. (By the way, you know you’re allowed to wear real pants sometimes, right?) She won’t be anywhere near as good as me, but after a while, it will be okay. And maybe in time you can love her just as much. Not instead of me, but right along with it.

I’m sorry for all the times I woke you at dawn for breakfast, or meowed at the door while you were doing your sexy making, and that I couldn’t hang out forever and ever. I just got too tired. But I feel better now, and I hope you do too. I leave you 100 forehead nuzzles, and an eternity of purring naps on your stomach. It’ll be better soon, I promise.

Oh, and when you get that new kitty, make sure she stays away from Brown Blanket. That shit’s mine forever. 

More articles by Brian Donovan: 

• And the Next Pope Is ... This Cat!
• Confessions of a Male Cat Owner
• How to Give Your Cat a Pill in 12 Easy Steps
• A Cat Person's Guide to Dating

Two idiots, to be exact: my gray tabby, Bubba Lee Kinsey, and my calico, Phoenix.

They are probably my favorite living things on this planet, but if Phoenix was human, I suspect she’d be a ditzy cheerleader. Bubba would be a refrigerator-sized meathead occupying the corner stool at the local dive bar.

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Bubba Lee Kinsey is smart enough not to be amused by my penchant for selfies.

I am, however, judging them by human standards. It is probably unreasonable, due to the language barrier, for me to expect my kitties to understand the phrase, “But I’m TIRED!” when they wake me up to be fed at 5 a.m. I’ve also got to consider that evolution and not sheer persistent lunacy is at play when they act scared of the vacuum cleaner even though it has never hurt them.

That’s why I decided to give my cats a few intelligence tests that are more on their level. I know the entire notion of whether these mysterious, aloof beasts can even be tested for intelligence is up for debate, but I still thought it would be a fun experiment. Here are the results.

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Is Bubba Lee Kinsey smart enough to find the treats after I've hidden them?

Test 1: kitty vs. blanket

Since there are not many cat-specific intelligence tests out there (apparently these creatures defy logic and explanation), I adapted this one from a test intended for dogs. I figured it would still be valid since both are intended to test spatial reasoning and problem solving. (Please note that I use the term “valid” loosely, as the primary purpose of these tests is entertainment at the expense of my cats.)

First, you need a blanket and an unsuspecting cat.

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Bubba Lee Kinsey has no idea what awaits him.

Make sure the cat is awake and alert, then cover her with the blanket and time how long it takes her to puzzle her way out.

The first time, I covered Phoenix with a full-size blanket, which proved to be too much for her. After about 45 seconds, I felt bad and had to help her. Fair enough, I thought -- after all, I always panicked when I got caught beneath the giant parachute in elementary school gym class.

So, the second time I folded the blanket in half. And Phoenix curled up underneath it and started purring.

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Phoenix failed this particular test.

Well, that can’t be good. To be honest, though, burrowing under the blankets of my freshly made bed is one of her favorite pastimes.

Bubba Lee Kinsey, however, found his way out within ten seconds. Good job, Bubba!

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Way to go, Bubba Lee Kinsey!

Test 2: kitty vs. treats

For this one, you need kitty treats, a clear glass, and an unsuspecting cat.

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Again, Bubba has no idea.

Show the cat the treats. Let her smell them -- and perhaps even lick them a bit. Then let her watch as you put the treats beneath the clear glass, where she can still see them, and time how long it takes her to retrieve the treats from beneath the glass.

Bubba Lee Kinsey and Phoenix both failed this test rather miserably. Bubba thought begging me for more treats was the answer.

Meanwhile, Phoenix just gave up.

Test 3: online quizzes

According to this online quiz, here are some things to consider when gauging your cat’s intelligence:

• How is your cat’s long-term memory? Does she flee at the sight of the pet carrier? (Both of my cats do.)
• Has your cat ever learned how to do something, like open a cupboard or flush the toilet, just by watching you do it? (My cats, thankfully, have not.)
• If you move your cat’s litter box or food dish, how long does it take her to figure out the new location? (Mine figure it out almost immediately.)
• If your cat sees a bird through the window, does she bang her head against the glass trying to catch it, or does she ask to be let outside? (My cats are not allowed outside, but they do not act as though catching the bird through the window is a real possibility.)
• How does your cat act if the litter box needs cleaning? (My Phoenix will wait until I’m near the litter box, and she’ll stand in front of it, look up at me, and meow pathetically.)

Here’s another silly test you can take online. I took it for both of my cats, and they both fell in the “average” category -- which sounds just about right.

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All quizzing and testing aside, I love my cats even if they’re idiots -- especially if they’re idiots. When I look in their eyes, I see soul and understanding, and that is enough for me.

Also, they’re smart enough to use the litter box. That helps, too. 

Have you ever given your cat a test like these? How did she do? Does it even matter? Let us know in the comments!

About Angela: This not-crazy-at-all cat lady loves to lint-roll her favorite dress and go out dancing. She also frequents the gym, the vegan coffee joint, and the warm patch of sunlight on the living room floor. She enjoys a good cat rescue story about kindness and decency overcoming the odds, and she's an enthusiastic recipient of headbutts and purrs from her two cats, Bubba Lee Kinsey and Phoenix.

More by Angela Lutz:

• 5 Fascinating Facts About Polydactyl Cats
• 5 Reasons to Love Your Cats' Kneading You
• 5 Reasons You Should Play with Your Cat Every Day

"Your cat is too fat," the vet said, while Phoenix ("Fifi") cowered on the scale. "Ideally, this cat should weigh nine pounds, at most."

The scale read closer to 13. I had noticed Fifi's belly growing rounder, like a balloon swelling beneath her skin, which swayed from side to side as she walked -- no, she was starting to waddle because of this obesity.

Her interest in play had also waned. She used to perform stunning acrobatics, twisting and contorting her body in midair to capture the feather toy between her teeth. Now she would barely swat at the ersatz bird before plopping down on the floor and grumbling, Marge Simpson-style, as though annoyed and exhausted by the mere notion that I would try to interact with her in a manner that did not involve putting food in a dish.

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I love my fat cat.

Yep -- my cat was too fat; that much I knew. Aside from related consequences like diabetes and arthritis, the vet mentioned one complication I hadn't considered.

"How's she doing with cleaning herself?" the vet asked, as she lifted Fifi's tail to inspect her behind.

"Um, fine?" I said, unaware that I needed to be monitoring my cat's bum so closely.

The vet confirmed that Fifi was, in fact, doing a better-than-expected job at keeping her backside tidy. She did, however, warn that inadequate grooming was something I'd need to look out for, as poor cleaning habits can cause urinary tract infections -- not to mention unsightly dingleberries.

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Phoenix perches atop a box of shoes during my last move.

And it was almost like the vet had jinxed me. You know how when someone you know buys a new car, or you learn a new word, and suddenly you see that car or hear that word everywhere? Odds are those cars and words have been everywhere the whole time, but now they've been thrown into sharp relief and you can't NOT notice them.

Well, that was my experience with the poop crusties on my cat's butt.

I first noticed the baked Alaska-esque brown crests on Fifi's white fur in bed, of course, when I was too tired to do anything about it. So I ignored it, hoping it would go away.

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Since this picture was taken, she has gotten even fatter. You'd better believe that belly floof is great for motorboating, though.

Unfortunately, it got worse. I went on vacation to Mexico for a week and left my cats at my parents' house, where they were off their low-calorie diet. When I returned to pick them up, the poop crusties had intensified. They had doubled -- maybe even tripled. They were clearly planning a large-scale takeover of my cat's rear end.

The worst part: It was all my fault. I was the one who did not do my research and thought free-feeding my cats was just fine. I did not play with them enough, and I probably gave them too many treats -- not to mention let them lick out one too many cereal bowls. And now these brown poop streaks were calling me out: guilty.

Once I got done berating myself for being the Worst. Cat. Parent. Ever. (in that special way only a recovering Catholic can), I started looking at the bright side. At four years old, Phoenix is still relatively young. Other than her weight problem, she is healthy. And I possess all of the skills and knowledge necessary to get her back to her fighting weight.

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Phoenix takes an awkward/awesome nap.

For starters, at my vet's recommendation, I am putting her (and Bubba Lee Kinsey) on a strict low-calorie diet consisting of 50 percent wet food and 50 percent dry using the nutritional guide found here, courtesty of the Association for Pet Obesity Prevention. I am going to insist upon play time, no matter how half-assed, every day before work.

And I am going to trim Fifi's damn butt hair, because dingleberries aren't good for anyone.

Like many humans, a lot of cats lead sedentary lifestyles and eat far too much -- and the only ones to blame are the humans. I might have let Fifi become unhealthy, but I'm not going to let her stay that way.

About Angela: This not-crazy-at-all cat lady loves to lint-roll her favorite dress and go out dancing. She also frequents the gym, the vegan coffee joint, and the warm patch of sunlight on the living room floor. She enjoys a good cat rescue story about kindness and decency overcoming the odds, and she's an enthusiastic recipient of headbutts and purrs from her two cats, Bubba Lee Kinsey and Phoenix.

More by Angela Lutz:

• 5 Reasons Calico Cats Are Endlessly Interesting to Me
• The Biggest Loser: Tiny the Fat Cat Drops Half His Body Weight
• 5 Common Household Items that Terrify My Cats

This was the case for my special seal point Siamese, Linus, when he lost his almost coal-black Siamese mix, Tubby. They had been inseparable from birth. That’s how I ended up with both of them.

Linus and Tubby had been abandoned in an empty apartment. A college student had left them behind with only a bag of food and the water from a toilet seat. The landlady found them and took them to the shelter.

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Linus and Tubby had never been apart.

When I spotted Linus, it was love at first sight. He had a dark brown coat with black feet, ears, and tail. He had the most beautiful steel blue eyes. The only hitch was that Tubby had to come with him. Except for the slant of his eyes, Tubby had absolutely no resemblance to a Siamese. He had thick black fur with only a few bits of white hair on his chest. His eyes were deep green.

I quickly could see why the shelter wanted them to remain together. They had always been together. And like some humans, they had a special bond with one another.

They would race and chase one another through the house. One would initiate the chase, and then the other would do the same. They spent hours jumping in and out of boxes, sticking their paws and noses out through holes they’d chewed. They’d wrestle by the hour, and where one was, the other followed.

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Mischief was never far away for these two.

It was not uncommon to have both occupying my lap at once. Linus hung out by my head while Tubby took the space by my feet every night. Then one day, Tubby was nowhere to be found.

Tubby was doing what cats do when they are sick. He was hiding, not letting his humans or feline friends know he was feeling bad. I was frantic. Where was he? Had he sneaked out through the door? It was winter with a lot of snow.

Two days later I was shocked when I saw him trying to walk across the floor in my bedroom. He could hardly walk. He was staggering, and he looked like he’d lost a lot of weight. I thought perhaps he had eaten a bad mouse.

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Later that week, Tubby was diagnosed with feline infectious peritonitis, or FIP, a fatal disease with no cure. He became so weak that I carried him up and down stairs. I fed him with a syringe. The only thing I could do was give him steroids twice a day. Initially, there was some improvement. But within two weeks, he had become so weak he couldn’t even crawl up onto the sofa. I concluded that it was time to put him out of his misery.

During this time, Linus had tried to comfort his brother. He’d lick his head trying to make him feel better. He didn’t understand why his brother wouldn’t race around the house with him. He knew something was very, very wrong; he just didn’t know what it was. He stopped playing and stayed by his brother. When he wasn’t by his side, he was watching him from afar.

Linus, too, was hurting. He acted listless. He almost had tears in his eyes. His very vocal loud meows were now dampened with sadness. It was like he knew his brother was dying and going away forever.

When Tubby was gone, Linus and I cried together about the loss of this very special feline friend. Linus would go to the food bowl and circle around, and just stare at it. Occasionally he’d sniff at the food and walk away. He’d look at my older kitty, Smokey Blue, and just walk away. He didn’t want anything to do with her. He wanted his Tubby.

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None of my other cats, including Smokey, could fill the hole in Linus' heart.

He was grief stricken. He was mourning the loss of his friend who had been by his side since birth. A few weeks later, Linus resumed eating, but he was still listless. He was depressed. He would not play, no matter what I tried.

I knew there was a special connection between the two littermates. I knew that Linus would miss his brother, but I just didn’t realize just how much, or how long.

Cats have a reputation for acting aloof, and sometimes they do, but they are very caring creatures. They develop strong connections with their humans and their special friends. They mourn the loss of their cat friends, and they grieve the losses just like humans do. Their hearts are broken, and that brokenness appears in their actions.

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Linus knew his brother was gone. He did not perpetually keep looking for him. Perhaps, they’d said their goodbyes through cat language. Tubby knew he was very sick. He probably knew he was dying, and he probably told Linus somehow that he was crossing the Rainbow Bridge.

My extra attention did not ease his grief. He missed the cat that he’d been with from the day he was born. With time, he became more himself, but he refused to play. That had been something that was reserved for Tubby.

It was February when Tubby died, leaving a big hole in our hearts. The following September, my boss talked me into adopting a long-haired orange tabby Maine Coon mix. He was only 8 weeks old. His human had thrown three kittens out of the house, and they were living in a barn. Winter was coming.

I was really reluctant to adopt a kitten. First of all, they could be very rambunctious. I also knew introducing a new cat, even a kitten, could change the household cat hierarchy and  dynamics. There was Smokey, who at 18 was becoming quite frail. There was mom’s cat, Clyde, a true scaredy-cat. Then there was my sweet black kitty with her Pink Collar, and Linus. There was no true love between any of them. It was more that they tolerated each another.

The first night the little kitty came home, the feline brood just kind of looked at him. Afraid they’d be mean to him, I kept him isolated. However, on day two, Linus started playing with little kitty. He’d lick his head and give him baths. He’d chase after him, and wrestle. He was showing him around the house and standing up for him if the other cats came too close. He was back to the old Linus. The two would run and play and jump and wrestle for hours on end.

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Little Yellow was the first cat to bring out the playfulness in Linus.

Linus had been lonely. He had missed his littermate, and the older cats just couldn't fill that role. They weren’t his style. He wanted more action. He wanted a new playmate. When the kitten arrived, he had just that -– there was lots of play, wrestling matches, and races through the house. Linus took the new kitten under his paw, and he adopted him as if he were his own. The kitten proved to be the medicine that Linus needed to move beyond his grief and help him return to his playful self.

Got a Cathouse Confessional to share?
We're looking for purrsonal stories from our readers about life with their cats. E-mail confess@catster.com, and you might become a published Catster Magazine author!

Read these related stories about cats and loss:

• 7 Things That Help Me Cope with Grief After Losing a Cat
• A Love Letter to BadCat, Who Has Long Been My Best Cat
• So You Feed Feral Cats: What Do You Do When One Dies?

I know you’re not really bad. You’re food-obsessed, you’re chatty, you have very specific annoyances -- a lot like me, actually. When I was just 17 and had no idea how to train you, you would pee in my mom’s potted plants every day. Remember the time in the kitchen when I saw you squatting and I yelled at you for probably the 10th time “BAD CAT!” Your tiny fuzzy face looked up at me and I thought, “Oh dear, she thinks that’s her name,” and it stuck. I think you’re actually the best cat I’ve ever owned.

When I was away from home for a year at school, every time I called my family I would ask, “Where is BadCat? When is the last time anyone saw her?” because they were not responsible pet owners and they would let you outside, where you would stretch out on the warm road. Oh how I’d scold you when I saw you relaxing there!

Do you remember that time when I took some black-and-white pictures of you for my photography class? I knew, even then, that life and love are fleeting. You’re 14 now, and getting sick, and I can’t even bring myself to look at those photos because you’re still here with me. I have only one photo of you as a kitten. I wish I had more of them from when you were just a little ball of fluff.

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Do you remember when we found each other? The first love of my life given me the first heartbreak of my life. It was mid-December and I was talking with two other students who were also skipping school. A light snow was falling. A man came down the concrete steps of the overpass and you, a small as you were, must have jumped the steps one by one along with him, looking for someone to bring you in from the cold, someone to pick you up, hold you, love you, and feed you.

The man asked, “Does this kitten belong to one of you?” Three of us stood there, but you made a beeline for my feet. I don’t remember what I said, or if you were cold or skinny; I just remember how darn fluffy and cute you were, that you were probably more fur than flesh, and that my parents might not let me keep you. But I tucked you into my jacket and brought you home. I worried you might wiggle or try to get away from me, but you didn’t. You purred a lot, the deal, sealed, at least for the two of us.

I didn’t even have food for you, or a litter box, but you didn’t seem to care. You fell asleep on my chest and I was cat-paralyzed. Then my father came into my room and I begged and pleaded with him to keep you, all cute, fuzzy, and asleep. We decided that mother should see you for herself so that she would say yes as well. They weren’t great parents, but maybe they could tell I needed you, that you would mend my broken heart.

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And you did, many times over. When my mother died and I cried alone in the apartment, you came to make sure I was okay. Even now, when I am laughing, you always check to see if I’m crying; it must sound similar, to a cat. Now that you’re going deaf you don’t hear my crying as much, and when I cry over losing you, I try to shield you from it.

Do you remember when my wife spent the night for the first time? You brought us a mouse. In the three or four years you and I had been together, you had never done that before! You brought the mouse up into the attic, and with it dangling in your mouth, yowled loudly until we awoke and turned on the light -- then, of course, you let it loose. We laughed and went back to sleep. And then you did it again! That was the best thing: You caught it a second time. I took it from you and let it go outside, unharmed. Since then you’ve been an indoor cat, and we no longer live in places with mice. I wonder if you miss catching them.

Do you remember when my mom was sick and you tripped her? You didn’t really trip her, I know that, but boy did she make a thud when she fell. You helped me be more compassionate because of that, because despite the sort of mother she was, she was my mother, and everyone only gets one, so I helped her up and made sure she was okay.

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Do you remember the first time I took you to the nursing home? I don’t remember that, but man, we’ve been so many times since. I know you meant a lot to many different people. It’s kind of nice to think that when the time comes you’ll see a lot of familiar faces that will keep you company until I meet you at that legendary Rainbow Bridge.

I hope you live long enough to go to some more 5k walks with me this year. Last year, I took you to my first one because I thought I would be bored. I walked you in that cute pet stroller that you love; I got to show you off and tell everyone how old you are and how you love to go in the stroller and how I taught you how to sit even at the age of 13! Now I want to take you to every track that allows for a stroller.

Last night I said to my wife, “I’m going to go get BadCat. Now she’s on borrowed time, I really just want to soak up this time with her.”

“But aren’t they all?” she replied.

My wife and her darn existentialism. Yes, BadCat, we are all dying, but I am pretty sure you will be the first of our family to go. I have no plans to get another cat after you; the four we have now are one too many. But you were my first cat. I paid for your spaying, the treatment for your ear mites (and the resulting painful and ugly yet adorable hematoma), and your bladder infection from the stress of our first move. Now you’re less expensive, because the doctor doesn’t know how to help you. The ectopic thyroid growth is too covered in blood vessels and nerves, and very close to the jugular. We want to keep you comfortable, and I won’t watch you suffer. We might see a specialist, but there is no cure for old age.

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I’m sorry I don’t know how to make you better. I want you to be with me forever, but I know that’s not possible. I have to follow the advice I have given many pet owners, as a shelter worker and as a vet tech: I have to watch you closely and determine when your good days are outnumbered by bad. It’s harder this time, because I’ve never had to do it myself. But until that day, I will do what I can for you: pick you up and put you on the bed, do homework with you on my lap, take you with me whenever I can, treasure this time with you -- but I have piles and piles of homework and housework, and soon I will have an internship that will take me away from you during the day. I love you. Take that with you always.

When the day and time comes, and I have peanut butter for you because you’ll swear off all bets for peanut butter, and I am holding you and crying, I will whisper in your ear the same thing I have told some of the people at the nursing home: “When you get there, tell my mother I love her and miss her.” Just promise me you won’t trip her.

Love, Mom

------------

After many years working in animal shelters and a veterinary hospital, Janelle D is pursuing her education to become a veterinary technician and go back to working in an animal shelter as an animal control officer or humane society police officer. She shares her home with her supportive wife and their four cats, BadCat, Smitty, Orbit, and October.

Other stories of inspirational cats:

• A Love Letter to My Cat, Thomas
• 5 Ways My Cats Keep Me Sober
• You've Probably Adopted a Cat; Has a Cat Ever Adopted You?

Got a Cathouse Confessional to share?
We're looking for purrsonal stories from our readers about life with their cats. E-mail confess@catster.com, and you might become a published Catster Magazine author!

I learned this lesson firsthand with my Little Yellow. He was about a year old when I brought my summer plants inside for the fall. Many could survive inside if they were out of the snow.

The plants came in off the deck into an inside enclosed, unheated area, away from the cats, who didn’t have roaming access to this area.

It was a beautiful fall day. The temperatures were up into the 70s, and that’s quite unusual for October in rural New England. I decided to open up the doors and let some fresh air inside the house while I straightened up and did that overdue housework.

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White Easter lily by Shutterstock.

I was quite engrossed in cleaning when all of a sudden I spotted Little Yellow, up on the table, nibbling on the very few lily leaves. I’d mistakenly left the door ajar, and he had snuck in. I was horrified, yelling at him to get away. He begrudgingly leaped down to the floor. The minute I turned my back, he was back at the plant, only this time, it looked like he was nibbling on the leaves. I immediately grabbed him and locked him in the living room.

I did know lilies could be toxic to cats. I was concerned. I was pacing and walking in circles. Had he just sniffed the lily? There really wasn’t any evidence of teeth marks. But one little nibble could be bad news.

He wasn’t acting like his playful self. Was he scared because I had yelled at him? Was he scared because I had reacted with haste to get him away from that plant? Or was it something more?

I immediately grabbed the phone book to get my vet’s number. It was Saturday, and I knew they’d be closed. The emergency pet clinic’s number -- some 70 miles away -- was on their machine. I called and took down the number.

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Tiger lily by Shutterstock.

Yellow was huddled in the corner. He was quiet, lethargic. Cats don’t have very long memories. It seemed very abnormal for him to just lay there. Was he trying to tell me something?

It wouldn’t be right not to do the best by him. I called the emergency clinic. They said, “A lily -- bring him in as soon as possible.”

I packed Little Yellow into a cat carrier and placed him on the passenger seat where I could keep a close eye on him. We began our 70-mile journey. It would take close to an hour and a half. I couldn’t get there fast enough.

Little Yellow was scared. He began crying with little meows. They grew louder till they became almost screams. I tried to comfort him, but he’d have no part of it. Then he started to hyperventilate. Saliva was coming from his little mouth. Was he having a kitty anxiety attack, or was this the effects from the lily? I pushed on the accelerator a bit harder. I had to travel as fast as I dared on these winding country roads. All the while, I had an eye on Little Yellow.

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Little Yellow offers himself as a cautionary tale -- see where his front leg was shaved for an IV.

The trip seemed endless. I had lost two cats -- one from old age and kidney problems, the other to FIP -- over the past two years. I could not bear to lose another.

At the clinic, I could hardly think. I rushed in with Little Yellow and a debit card in hand. They were expecting us.

His vital signs were good, but they wanted to run some blood tests just to make sure. I retreated to the waiting area. It seemed like hours before I heard my name.

The vet: I’ve got good and bad news for you. It appears that Little Yellow is stable and has no outward signs of kidney failure. However, there are some antibodies in the blood that indicate otherwise. We’d like to put on intravenous fluids and keep him here overnight.

Yellow looked very fragile. His little arm had been shaven from his paw to his elbow. There was a big bandage on it. They put in the IV and started the drip.

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Little Yellow seemed comforted by my presence. I really hated to leave him. I didn’t want to leave, but I had to be back by 7 a.m. sharp the next day, to pick him up and take him to his regular vet the next morning.

I went to the car, feeling lost. How could I have let him get into that room near that deadly plant? Why didn’t I just trash it? Will he be OK? Will he have long lasting effects from this?

At 9 p.m., I called to find he was resting comfortably. I didn’t sleep well. I had to be on the road by 5 to guarantee I’d be on time. They are only open when the regular vet’s offices are closed -- nights and weekends.

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No more lilies!

My Little Yellow seemed glad to see me. My regular vet kept him for observation for 24 hours.

It was a long 24 hours, but at least I knew he wasn’t going to die -- at least not that day. But if I hadn’t taken him to the emergency clinic, he could have gone toxic, even with a tiny nibble of a lily leaf. The fluids helped flush his system. If that hadn’t happened, who knows what could have happened.

Little Yellow has doubled in size and become a gorgeous Silver Maine Coon mix. He is a Velcro cat, perhaps because of his brush with death.

Read more about cats and toxic plants and foods:

• Take It from a Vet: Lilies Are Toxic to Cats
• Quick-Thinking Caretaker Saves a Cat Who Ate an Easter Lily
• Plants and Foods that are Poisonous to Cats
• 6 Everyday Foods that Are Toxic to Cats
• How to Decorate Your Place With Plants Without Killing Your Cat

Got a Cathouse Confessional to share?

We're looking for purrsonal stories from our readers about life with their cats. E-mail confess@catster.com, and you might become a published Catster Magazine author!

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Cosmo and I dance and my son pretends he doesn't see us.

When my kids were toddlers, we danced in the kitchen every afternoon. I can almost guarantee my son was the only kid in his preschool class who knew the words to "Hot Stuff" by Donna Summer. At least the only one who chose to sing it in public and make me rethink my decision to expose him to the saucy disco stylings of the fabulous Ms. Summer. Soon my kids grew too old for kitchen dancing with Mom and, instead, they asked that I please refrain from such "unseemly" behavior. At least when their friends were around. Alas, the dance was still in my heart and soul and I found myself partnerless. Then one day 11 years ago, a teeny tuxie boy joined our family and everything changed. We named him Cosmo and he immediately took a special shine to me. I held him over my shoulder while I washed dishes and folded laundry. He seemed to feel so comfortable there and, out of motherly habit, I found myself patting his fuzzy little back, hoping to burp(?) him and doing that swaying back and forth thing moms do when holding an infant. He was my baby. 

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He is the dancing queen.

There's always music playing in our house. Always. My husband and I love all sorts of tunes and our kids have grown up listening to and learning about a variety of genres. One day I was puttering around in the kitchen with a baby kitty on my shoulder and one of my favorite 80's dance songs popped up on my playlist. I think it was something by New Order because if any band could send me flying onto the dance floor back in the day, it was their electro-Brit goodness. Out of habit, I started moving around the kitchen and Cosmo remained calmly resting on my shoulder. I placed my hand on his back and continued dancing. It was in that moment I realized I'd found my new dance partner.

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Nobody puts Cosmo in a corner.

Over the past 11 years, Cosmo and I have twirled and bounced around the linoleum floor at the kitchen disco to most every type of music. He's a natural talent and can easily move to the accompaniment of Patsy Cline's country crooning and then modify his booty-shaking to rock along with The Ramones or some old-school Run D.M.C. rap. He's just that versatile. He still enjoys resting on my shoulder, but he's not a little kitty anymore and I can only hold his now 12-lb. form for a song or two. And, honestly, his patience has waned with age so he's more likely to let me know when he's ready to take off the dancing shoes and stretch out in a sun-puddle for a nap. I know he'll be back for another round.  

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After a few songs, Cosmo likes to take a break and enjoy some licks of his favorite liquid cat treat.

Oh, have I mentioned I usually sing to Cosmo while we're dancing? For sure, I do. I typically alter the lyrics and insert his name so he feels even more like a star. He especially loves when I sing ABBA to him. Seriously, what cat doesn't like being called a dancing queen? It's the truth, after all.

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Best dance partner ever!

I've given up on worrying what neighbors think about my kitchen-dancing. They know I write cat humor so they already think I'm a little bit nuts. Why not raise the shade on the full-blown crazy? And Cosmo and I even dance in front of the kids and sometimes (gasp) their friends. He and I have nothing to hide. We love to sashay and feel like it's our purpose -- nay, our responsibility -- to share our talent with the world. The kitchen disco is always open, the DJ takes requests and there's never a cover charge or dress code. What's not to like? Let me know if you'd like to come join us sometime. Just please don't ask to cut in because I'm not sharing my dance partner with anyone.  

Do you dance with your cat? Tell us about it in the comments!

Read more about the cat-human bond:

I Bonded With an Outdoor Cat and Now He Lives Indoors

5 Ways My Cats Keep Me Sober

Do You Know (or Live With) a Cat Who Loves Everybody?

This post was sponsored by TEMPTATIONS® Treats for Cats -- Cats Can't Resist®.

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People who knew this person suspected she had more than a few cats, and probably a few too many. But nobody could have even come close to imagining the situation. When we found out, I was one of the group of people who helped re-rescue all of the cats she had originally “rescued” herself.

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Amelia and Aurora behind her originally at the shelter they were "rescued" from.

I knew this woman online through Facebook and animal rescue. Many people did. She was supposedly working with local rescues in Tampa to take in cats, many of them sick, and get them healthy again and adopted. I know numerous people who sent cats from kill shelters to her, with the expectation of a better life for the animals and the promise of a brighter future.

At some point in the past, I believe, that was happening. I believe she had it under control for quite a while, and perhaps at some point it became all too overwhelming. But I might be giving her too much benefit of the doubt. Who can say?

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This is Pretty at the hoarder's house. It's one of the only pictures she ever shared of any of the cats while in her care. I have a feeling this was early on before it was bad.

This woman went on vacation a few weeks ago and suffered a major stroke while she was out of state. She was hospitalized, and her condition was dire. Physicians weren’t sure whether she was going to make it, let alone ever come home again.

And so it was discovered that she had way too many cats. First estimates were at around 40. That's 40 once-rescued cats in her home in varying states of health.

When word got out, rescuers from numerous places scrambled to find pictures of the cats that had been sent to her. Each one hoped to get those cats back. Many other rescuers opened their doors and hearts and took in a few here and there. Local shelters took the sick cats.

I posted an album on my Facebook page of all the cats who the South Florida rescue folks had sent to her. We posted pictures and as much detail as we had about each one, and we shared it with those who were going in the house and getting the cats out.

One woman was on the front lines, in the house every day. She knew the hoarder but was totally blown away by what she saw when she entered the home.

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Aurora, cozy and comfy now back down in South Florida!

The first day, she took 20 cats out of the house and straight to the vet. The sickest ones were pulled out first. There were sick cats and hungry cats, and as it turns out, FIV+ and FeLV+ cats all mixed in with the general population. One cat had an eyeball literally hanging out, and the vet believed it had been like that for a couple of weeks.

The next day, 24 more cats were pulled from the home. Estimates went from 40 to at least 60 cats in the home.

The following day, another round of cats was taken out, and the day after that, another batch. Each cat was taken directly to the vet and tested and checked out. Local rescues filled up any piece of space they had with these cats. Fosters stepped up, and adopters came around as well.

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Me and Casper and Adele, two of the kitties we re-rescued from her house!

In the end, there were 85 cats pulled from the three-bedroom home. Eighty-five cats. No one had any idea this was going on. You wonder how in the world no one knew. This shows me that anything is possible. You really have no idea what’s going on behind closed doors in anyone’s house.

We worked with the rescuer mentioned above to identify nine cats we were looking for. Comparing our pictures with the cats once they arrived the vet, we were able to track down seven cats originally rescued from South Florida shelters in Broward and Dade counties. Seven of our South Florida cats were safe, and now it was time to get them down here so we could find them real forever homes.

Pretty, Aurora, Adele, Amelia, Panther, Casper, and Misty were held at two different places -– at the woman’s house and at TAPS animal rescue -– while I worked out transport to get them back down here.

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Tristin ready to drive the kitties to real safety. Aurora the kitty had lots to say and catch us up on!

The two we weren’t able to identify were an orange tabby named Oliver and a tabby named Tiger. Unfortunately, I am told there were 24 orange cats and probably just as many brownish tabbies like Tiger. They tried to compare markings but couldn't identify these two.

I've been doing a lot of cat-transport coordinating lately, so I asked a few friends to help drive these kitties down to Fort Lauderdale. A friend in Tampa offered to drive the first half of the trip, and another wonderful woman in Fort Myers offered to do the second half. Now all we needed to do was find seven cat carriers!

Not having the money to buy seven new carriers, I put a call for help on my Facebook page asking for people in Tampa who could donate a carrier to help rescue some hoarder cats. Within a few hours, I had seven with our cats’ names on them. My sister, who happens to live in Tampa, drove all around the following morning collecting carriers and dropping them off at the first driver’s home so they’d be ready to go that afternoon.

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The cats all loaded up in Pam's car for the second half of their rescue transport!

This past Saturday afternoon, our emergency re-rescue transport happened! The first driver, a wonderful woman named Tristin B, drove to the first place and picked up four of the cats, and then drove an hour from there to pick up the other three. Cats from this hoarder’s home were temporarily tucked away all over in a 100-mile radius from Tampa.

And then they were on the road!

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I give Casper a smooch. He deserves it and many more!

They reached Fort Myers, switched over to the second car with a fantastic friend named Pam C, and continued their journey.

At around 10 p.m. on Saturday night, the re-rescued kitties arrived in Fort Lauderdale and settled down in an empty condo a great friend of mine offered up for their temporary safe housing. They are now Good Karma Pet Rescue of South Florida cats (my awesome partner in cat rescue!), and we’ll take them all to the vet and make sure they find the best homes –- the best forever homes.

One of the cats, a 15-year-old Siamese named Pretty, has a couple already waiting to adopt her. Three others, Adele, Aurora and Amelia, are being taken in by our friends at HART of Maine cat shelter. They will be in foster until their forever family finds them. Two more, Panther and Casper, will hopefully find homes soon.

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15-year-old Pretty, safe and sound in her window down here now!

The most shocking thing about the cats we received is that Misty, a pretty but seriously skinny tortie, is actually pregnant. This hoarder woman was supposed to get her spayed, and even said that she had it done on her “own nickel,” but clearly she lied. Some may not agree with us, but we’re going to get her spayed ASAP. There are too many homeless kittens in our shelters now; we don’t need any more. Then she’ll need a home, too.

I visit the kitties at the condo every day during my lunch break from work. It’s right across from my office! They are wonderful cats and surprisingly healthy. They eat like pigs and love like lovebugs.

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Panther's favorite spot right now ... as King of the Closet!

I’m particularly in love with Panther. He is an amazing cat! So friendly and so big, and so demanding of attention. This is what he does every day from the bathroom counter:

I’m so sad these cats had to go through that situation, but I'm so happy that we were able to get them back down here to make things right for them. They are being showered with love right now, and we hope they find the best homes and get showered forever and ever!

Lesson to be learned here: If you are a rescue or shelter, be very careful who you adopt to. You really don’t know someone until you see their house. And if you do rescue cats, be careful not to get in over your head. What starts out as good intentions can unfortunately turn ugly if not kept under control and done smart.

Let’s keep saving and rescuing cats, and make sure we do it the right way. Cats in shelters are depending on us. Let’s not let them down.

Read more related stories: 

• So You Want to Transport a Cat? Here's How in Four Easy Steps
• Hey Southern Kill Shelters: Are You Swimming in Kittens? Please Send Them Up North!
• Are You a Cat Hoarder? Answer These 9 Questions and Find Out
• Established Arizona Cat Hoarder Lucienne Touboul Is at It Again

A friend heard my stories about Forest’s behavior and methods of waking me and devised the Forest Alarm description. While most people rely on blaring music or buzzers to jolt them from sleep, I get ear nibbles from a furry muse, a lick upon my lips, or a reverse exercise in counting sheep as he hops left and right over my head. He has concocted more techniques to wake me.

All pets seem to have distinct methods of making their owners do what they desire. A friend once told me that her cat, J.R., would sit beside her head each morning and sneeze precisely on her face. Another acquaintance shared a story of a cat who batted a baseball off of its owner’s headboard, more than once, clunking him on his head.

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Forest really loves to kiss me awake.

My beloved Desdemona, a cat who died at age 16, used to lightly nibble on my fingertips until I rose. If that didn’t work, she’d pace into and out of my bedroom meowing for her morning “num-nums.”

What I never expected was to be licked on the lips -- or, as I joke, French kissed by a cat. In retrospect, I’ve created my furry Forest timepiece.

As he approached four months of age, Forest entered my life and I showered him with kisses -– often placing one on the end of his pink nose. He began to expect them. When I hug him, he now shoves his nose toward my face, wanting a kiss.

When I’m sleeping and he craves his breakfast, Forest sticks his wet nose against my lips looking for a kiss. When I don’t feel his nose, he licks my lips. I joke with my mom that he tastes me and would eat me if I didn’t rise. Many times I have woken up to find him licking my forehead, cheeks and nose.

After a point, Forest started using love-bites –- gentle nibbles by fangs to my cheeks, eyebrows, ears, and the tip of my nose. One morning I woke to a sharp poke in the top of my ear, then itching followed by swelling. Forest bit my ear so hard that I was bleeding. Oddly enough, I’m allergic to cats and dogs, and a scratch will make me swell. When I tried explaining this bite to my doctor, I received a memorable response along with antibiotics.

Like an owl, Forest studies my every move, sitting quietly beside my pillow, on my nightstand or across the room on a railing. If I blink an eyelid, he moves closer for another wake-up technique –- anything to make me rise and stay awake. 

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Forest's sweet little tongue.

My furry clock will dive under the covers to find my naked knees and nibble them. If one of my bare feet pokes out from under the covers, he will hold it softly between his front paws and nibble on my toes.

He also has keen eyesight for hair ties (fabric scrunchies and elastic), which he can spy in my long hair while I sleep. Often I wake to him pulling my hair with his front teeth, maneuvering a hair tie from my mane. 

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Forest loves to nibble me awake.

I used to hang my eyeglasses over ironwork on the headboard of my bed. Forest spotted the stems and repeatedly knocked my eyeglasses down, making me crawl under the bed to find them. 

If Forest’s sister, Joan, is resting nearby, he will tease her –- poke his paw at her bottom or stare at her until she growls and I get up to stop them from fighting.

Gradually, I had to hide everything on my nightstand: pens, lip balm, notepads, and books. Everything was methodically batted onto the floor. The last thing was my real alarm -– a small digital, battery-operated clock. Each time the snooze alarm sounded, Forest watched me touch it and then sleep again. Two or three snooze rings later, Forest swatted it to the floor, causing the back to pop off and the battery to roll under the bed. By then, I had to rise.

Without fail, Forest can predict the sunrise, often implementing these animated techniques within minutes before my other alarm sounds. 

It has been six years waking to his spirited purring and happy face close to mine. I can’t imagine mornings without him.

More stories about how cats help their humans:

• Help! My Cat, Puccini, Wakes Me Up Wailing at 4:30 a.m.
• I Can't Do Anything Without My Cat's Help -- I Mean, Who Can?
• How a Surprise Litter of Kittens Changed My Life 

A few years ago, my friend was potty training her cat, and our conversations usually went something like this:

My friend: "So, this morning around 6, I was still in bed and Birthday [her cat] started crying and howling. So I got up to see what was up, and it turns out I accidentally put the lid down on the toilet and he couldn't pee!"

Me: "Oh! Poor little kitty!"

My friend: "I know! I felt so bad. But he's just so good, and he came and got me instead of peeing on the couch or something! He still doesn't know exactly what to do when he needs to poop -- he'll come get me and we'll sit in the bathroom for a while and I'll perch him on the toilet, and then he'll actually poop. But this past week, I've come home from work and he's pooped in the toilet all by himself! I'm so proud of him!"

Me: "Oh, my god, that's awesome! I really wish I could get Brandy to pee in the toilet, but she's just so obstinate!"

This is my life. My pets have always been my fur babies. They are a part of my family, therefore their goings on -- bathroom, bedroom, politics -- make their way into a high percentage of my adult conversations.

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Is there a resemblance?

No, I don't get all unhinged and tell everybody I meet about my cats' hilarious Midnight Crazies. But if I catch a whiff of the same pet-centric leanings on you, you can bet you'll be hearing about my cat's precise and strategic revenge-barfing in my husband's shoes.

I like to talk about the weird shit my cats do. If I get the vibe from you that pets just aren't your thing, I'll usually back off. But like it or not, my cats are a part of my life, and therefore they are going to make an appearance in conversation. Most of my friends are pretty cool with hearing about my cats from time to time.

If you replaced the above cat references with baby references, it would sound pretty familiar to parents, wouldn't it?

I know some people are only humoring me with the cat talk, but honestly it goes both ways. I like babies, and I've even been known to find quite a few of them eye-crossingly cute and enjoyable. And there are times I really do want to know about the intimate and gory details of parenthood because it's so far outside of my realm of understanding.

But sometimes -- and I'm positive some people have done this to me when I'm talking about Tailsy's astounding command of the English language -- I am simply smiling and wracking my brain for ways to relate when a parent is telling me about their baby's teething trials or onesie fiasco.

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Me with Tailsy, one of my feline kids.

But we do these things, and I'm okay with that. If it's important to you, my friend, I'm going to try. And I appreciate your trying too.

BUT. There are people that really seem bothered by this whole pets-as-family thing. When I was working for a theatre in LA, our department had the reputation for being the kind of SPCA of the building. Some people rolled their eyes, but most knew to come over to my boss' or my desk when they wanted to gush about their puppy's antics, or for a shoulder to cry on when their cats went on to that great cat box in the sky.

There was peaceful coexistence. Until there wasn't. When a co-worker's dog passed, she was beside herself. Some of us banded together and gave her flowers. I regularly found myself at her desk, helping her make arrangements for her dog's cremation. Even the managing director came by to offer his sympathies. We all felt for her. So I thought.

Early one evening, I was finishing up some work when one of the women from the next office over walked through our department. She glanced at the flowers on my co-worker's desk and asked me, "What are those for?"

When I told her, she let out an exasperated laugh. "Oh, my god, it's a dog. Get over it. I get it, it's sad, but come on, you guys -- flowers? Really?"

It's not worth going into the ensuing argument. I got so angry I cried, which is one of the more frustrating symptoms of my rage. On the plus side, it often TOTALLY FREAKS OUT the person I'm arguing with.

I do, however, remember asking her, "Who are you to qualify grief or love?" -- which is what I think this all boils down to.

Sometimes I get tired of hearing what a genius your baby is, but if I were to ask you to stop talking about your baby because "She's just a baby," we wouldn't be friends anymore.

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"She's just a cat." Don't ever say this to your cat-owning friends. Woman cuddling cat by Shutterstock

I know this is a little bit of an extreme example, but to dismiss any person's suffering because of its focus is just wrong. Like that episode with the bird at Whole Foods, if you start deciding who or what is worthy of care, that could lead to a very scary place.

No matter how difficult it is for some people to understand, to many of us, our pets are not just animals. They've infiltrated our lives and made us kinder, more responsible, and more compassionate people. Many parents would say that parenthood changed them in similar ways. Common ground!

I'm not saying children and pets are exactly the same in terms of bonding and intimacy. I know there is something between a parent and a child that I may never understand. But please don't discount the love I have for my pets.

Look, I'm not trying to start the Great Baby-Puppy-Kitty War of 2013 (or am I?), and I'm not saying that upon commencing childrearing, all parents become bored of their pets. I've caught many of my friends with kids, baby talking and gurgling to their cats or dogs. It's not all or nothing.

I guess I'm just asking for understanding. You have your baby, and I have mine.

Other articles by Louise:

• My Cats Are Eating My Paycheck in Raw Food; I'm Fine with That
• Your Kitchen Has Remedies for Simple Pet Health Problems
• My Black Cat, Tailsy, Came Back After Being Lost for a Year

Other articles about cat parenting:

• Hey, Susan Maushart: Pet Moms ARE Real Moms!
• What If Cat Moms Got the Same Respect as Baby Moms?

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I’d borrowed Shaughnessy, one of my family’s cats, to keep me company during my first year as an official member of the Grown-Up Club. She got along great with my roommate’s Maine Coon cat, curled up with me on the couch when we hung out and watched The Real World and Beverly Hills 90210, and slept next to me on my secondhand futon every night.

One day, about six months after Shaughnessy and I began our new lives together, I realized that she hadn’t eaten much for the last couple of days. She looked uncomfortable, and the look in her eyes told me that something was Not Quite Right.

I may have been young and foolish, but I had enough brains in my head to see that she needed to go to the vet. I looked through the Yellow Pages and called a local clinic.

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The next day, Shaughnessy and I got on the bus and took the half-hour ride to the veterinarian. My hands were shaking, and I was in a cold sweat. All I could think was, “I borrowed my family’s cat and now she’s gonna die and it’s all my fault!”

Yeah, I had a slight anxiety problem back then.

At the clinic, the vet gave her a quick once-over and said, “She’s probably got a hairball. Give her some Petromalt and if she doesn’t get better, come back in.”

Later that day, I dutifully gave her a dose of Petromalt. An hour later I heard that unmistakable “URK-ch, URK-ch, URK-ch … splurt!”

I ran into the kitchen to see Shaughnessy staring at a sopping, grease-covered clump of matted fur. She looked up at me, and the relief in her eyes was palpable. Then she trotted over to her dish and started munching away on her kibble.

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I was relieved, too, but I’ve got to admit I had to work pretty hard not to retch as I cleaned up after her.

That was my first hairball experience, but it certainly wasn’t my last. Those that came afterward were much less dramatic, but certainly no less icky.

Like many cat lovers, I’ve staggered half-awake and half-blind down a darkened hall ... and planted a foot solidly in the middle of a pile of fur garnished with Kitty’s most recent meal and a goodly share of cold, slimy stomach juices.

I’ve found hairballs on the floor, on the carpets, on the couch, and even on one particularly memorable moment, on my quilt. I found that one when I rolled over to hit the snooze button on my alarm clock and dragged my arm across it as I was about to tuck myself back under the covers.

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But these days, my cats are much less inclined to be of the hairball-ish persuasion. Once I began feeding my cats a combination of commercially prepared raw foods and grain-free, low-carb canned food, their coat condition improved dramatically. Of course, good coat condition doesn’t stop cats from shedding, but when cats eat the food they’re designed to eat, the fur seems more likely to take its intended route through the digestive system instead of getting lodged in their stomachs.

That’s not to say my cats never huck up hairballs anymore: They do. But those hairballs are more like hairball-bearings, and they’re very rare. My cats are happy that they don’t have to endure the discomfort of a stomach full of matted fur, and I’m happy that I don’t feel like I should be buying stock in paper towel companies because of all the cleaning up I’m doing.

What was your most memorable hairball experience? Share your story in the comments!

She provided them with two doghouses stuffed with hay for shelter and would stop by every morning to dump out food. If you’ve ever seen the Family Guy episode with the sick cats, you can imagine what these cats looked like as they wandered up for food.

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Feral cats and dogs by Shutterstock

To give the woman credit, she did trap and neuter a couple of them, but the rest continued to add to the population. The limited gene pool resulted in kittens with missing eyes, ears, and limbs. Without proper vetting, they were sickly and diseased and at risk for contracting and transmitting rabies. They were also anemic from being severely infested with fleas.

The colony was reported several times, but the woman would destroy or tamper with the traps that animal control set out. Finally, under threat of citations, the woman consented to having the colony removed by animal control. Most of them were too wild and/or sick to ever be put up for adoption.

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Cat colonies might start out small, but without TNR, they will grow and grow. Woman feeding cats by Shutterstock

Colonies aren’t random. They start with someone letting their intact cat roam and produce kittens. Many people think it’s OK to let cats just roam around the neighborhood, intact or not. Many of these cats end up as strays, scavenging for food and reproducing if they are able. A few cats attract a few more, and the offspring of these strays are considered feral.

The No. 1 reason people give me when they feed these stray/feral cats is that they don’t want to see them go to the shelter because they “know what will happen there."

Well, pardon me. I wasn’t aware that humane euthanasia, as awful as it may sound, was so horrible in comparison to adding to the population of intact, unvaccinated homeless cats. I don’t like to see any animal die, but I also don’t like seeing people willfully contribute to the problem instead of being part of the solution.

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Feral cats often live short, uncertain lives. Vagrant cat by Shutterstock

Our own two kittens were the result of someone feeding a stray without spaying or vaccinating her. In their eyes, she wasn’t their cat, but they also didn’t want to see her go hungry. A kitten herself, she gave birth to four kittens, two of which live with us. After her first litter, they decided to get her spayed.

Unfortunately, they didn’t do it soon enough, and she gave birth to a second litter. Remembering how hard it was to find decent homes for the kittens from the first litter, they made the responsible decision to take the mama cat and her kittens to the local shelter, where they were able to find homes after being properly vetted.

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Unlike my cat Leela, most stray/feral kittens don't end up in homes.

The ASPCA has a lot of great articles on managing a feral cat colony, but the average person feeding strays doesn’t have the monetary resources to cover spay/neuter and vaccines for every member of the colony. In my opinion, that’s when you let animal control do their duty. You can also try to work with rescues in hopes that the tamer and healthier cats can one day be adopted out.

What are your thoughts? Please let me know in the comments!

Read other articles about feral cat issues: 

• 8 Steps to Trap, Neuter, and Return Feral Cats
• So You Feed Feral Cats. What Do You Do When One Dies? 
• How to Make Thermal Boxes to Save Feral Cats' Lives in Winter
• I Was Raised by a Gang of Feral Cats

I found only one cat-related photo from when I was really young. It's of little me sharing a bench with my grandmother's Siamese cat, Inga. I have very few memories of this cat, except that she was mean. I maintained a good distance from her. In this photo, I look a little worried. 

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"You stay on your end of the bench and I'll stay on mine."

The photos jumped ahead 10 years or so. There's so much 1980s goodness in the one below. I'm on the left wearing a Duran Duran concert shirt -- Seven and the Ragged Tiger, if I'm not mistaken -- and I'll take this moment to mention I had a Tiger Beat photo of John Taylor inside the plastic cover of my seventh-grade Trapper Keeper with the kittens on the front. Remember that one? I found one online, and they're calling it "vintage." Oy. Also, we subjected our black male cat Sidney to the humiliation of wearing my adoption doll's clothing. Poor cat. My sister and her friend were accomplices and, with me as a role model, my sibling had no chance of normalcy. None, whatsoever.

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"The shame."

Bounce ahead a few years to Christmas of my ninth-grade year. In the next photo, my sister holds Skippy, whom we called Sheepie because he was as soft as a lambie. I hold our tiny tuxedo girl, Bobbi.

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Nearly all our family photos included a cat or two.

My mother found Bobbi when the kitten was just 6 weeks old. She'd been abandoned and Mom fed her with a dropper until she was old and strong enough to feed herself. Mom is still a good egg -- and my cat lady role model.

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Mom holding Bobbi as a kitten.

Here I am with Sheepie. He was floppy, awesome, and put up with my crap like nobody else. Please note the heavily tinseled tree. That was back in the day when we loaded the silver stuff on the branches 'til they drooped and then spent a month pulling strands of it out of cat butts. We've come a long way since then. Tinsel = bad.

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Floppy cats = good. Tinsel = bad.

Here's proof of Sheepie putting up with my crap. Also proof of my sweet asymmetrical haircut. 

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Babushka kitty is not amused.

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"Yay!"

Now that I've properly demonstrated by love of all things cats, let's step back a couple of years to my Christmas as
a giddy eighth-grader. It was a making-cat-ears-with-my-fingers kind of exciting day. Note to my sister: You're welcome for cutting most of your candy-striped bottom out of the photo on the left.

That was the year Santa brought me my first typewriter, as pictured in the below photo. It was my Red Ryder BB gun of Christmas gifts. I mean, look at it! It was ridiculously cool, and I'd give anything to still have it. The color was fabulous and probably matched the eye shadow I wore at the time. And it was electric ... and came with correction tape! At the time, I was the news editor of my middle-school paper, so this typewriter would go on to produce many an important article about school lunches and student council elections. Glory, glory, hallelujah! My life would never be the same.

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It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen!

These photos and stories explain how I turned out the way I did. It's funny -- back then, I never would have imagined that my penchant for pussycat humor and love of writing would turn into a source of income. But I also thought I'd probably marry John Taylor, so there's that. Oh, and I've never, ever been afraid to express myself. 

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Belly time!

Read more posts by Angie Bailey:

• 5 Ways My Cats Show Me Who's Really In Charge
•8 Fortune Cookies For Cats
•5 Things I Do With My Cats That I'm Glad No One Sees

Since I started writing for Catster, I've been delighted to learn that thousands of people see their cats the same way I do: as eccentric, furry family members who poop in boxes. Because they're family, I have always loved and cared for my cats to the best of my ability -- but the more I learn about their health, care, and behavior, the more I realize I have room for improvement.

Here are five ways I'm a better cat parent now than I was a year ago.

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I'm an awesome cat parent because I let Bubba Lee Kinsey sleep anytime, anywhere.

1. Wet food is for winners!

When I was 19, feeding Bubba Lee Kinsey used to be cheap and easy. I would dump kitty kibble into his bowl and not think about it again until that bowl was empty. I had no idea what constituted “good” vs. “bad” cat food; I only knew that if it had a picture of a cat on the bag, it was probably legit.

It bears mentioning that in these days I did not eat much better myself. I considered SpaghettiOs or Easy Mac a good dinner -- and Taco Bell was a special treat.

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Phoenix in my claw foot tub, from which she and Bubba both used to drink before I switched up their diet to include more wet food.

Then I read Fast Food Nation and got wise to the truth behind most mass-produced meats. I changed up my own diet, and I tried to change Bubba’s diet as well. I bought higher-end cat food in tuna or salmon flavors instead of chicken or turkey. By the time I got my second cat, Phoenix, I thought my furry friends were pretty damn lucky to be eating so well. 

But it turns out I still wasn’t doing enough. A couple of months ago, I asked my vet why my cats were obsessed with licking my claw-foot tub after I showered, and she revealed that many cats are dehydrated. She recommended feeding them approximately 50 percent of their daily calories in canned food, which contains more moisture than dry. She also suggested placing a water bowl in another room away from the food, since cats prefer to have their resources separate.

And guess what? My cats don’t lick the tub anymore.

Further reading: "Does Your Cat Have a Drinking Problem?"

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I am really lucky that even though Bubba is 11 and Phoenix is only 4, they get along famously and even groom each other.

2. I quit drinking so darn much

Drinking whiskey used to be my favorite thing. And it was a lot of fun ... until it wasn't. I quit drinking a little more than a year ago, and looking back it seems fairly obvious that my drinking was a lonely and miserable affair more often than it was hilarious and carefree.

My cats, I'm sure, agreed. When I was hungover, they didn't get fresh water. I didn't play with them. If they wanted attention, I usually ignored them -- unless I needed tufts of belly floof in which to bury my face while I cried. They even got out a few times when I failed to close the front door all the way, and I'd find them on the neighbor's porch or under a nearby car. They deserved better.

Simply by being sober and present, I am able to give my cats -- and myself -- the love and care they deserve.

Further reading: "5 Ways My Cats Keep Me Sober"

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Phoenix stoically endures her most recent trip to the vet.

3. I sucked it up and took them to the vet

For years I told myself that my cats didn't need to go to the vet because they lived indoors and weren't around other cats. I was also afraid of how much it would cost -- veterinary care is not cheap.

Then I learned that cats are pretty much zen masters when it comes to hiding pain. If my cats did have secret ailments, I probably wouldn't know until the problem was so severe that it could no longer be helped. This is particularly true with dental disease -- it is estimated that up to 85 percent of cats over the age of three have some form of dental disease.

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So I finally sucked it up and took the house tigers to the vet. It was a physically and emotionally draining experience, but I did get some much-needed advice to help my cats lose weight and hopefully prevent arthritis and diabetes. Also, Phoenix is getting her teeth cleaned this summer.

Bottom line: I love my cats and do not want them to be in pain, so the money and the stress associated with the occasional vet visit is well worth it.

Further reading: "5 Things I Did Wrong When I Took My Cats to the Vet"

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Having a cat means keeping a box of poo in your home. I don't know about you, but I'm cool with that.

4. I switched to natural kitty litter

When I read Cat Daddy by Jackson Galaxy, I discovered that the clay kitty litters I'd always used might not be best for my cats: The clay dust can cause asthma, and the silica found in certain litters can cause cancer.

So I went on a quest to find a natural kitty litter that was affordable and effective enough to keep my small apartment from smelling like an episode of "Hoarders." The winner? Arm & Hammer Essentials. It clumps tight and controls odors, and the price is reasonable. The best part? It's made out of corn and baking soda, meaning it's safer for Bubba and Phoenix.

If my weird, reclusive roommates have to poop in boxes, I might as well make the experience great. Or at least as good as possible. 

Further reading: "My Cats Tested 5 Top Brands of Natural Cat Litter Just for You"

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Even though I'm a pretty decent cat parent, I still can't break up every fight.

5. I'm willing to admit I might be wrong

What have you learned lately that's made you a better cat parent? Got any suggestions for me? Let me know in the comments!

That is the fortune bestowed upon me by Sister Clara Clairvoyant: the Psychic Cat.

It was the beginning of my sophomore year of college in Los Angeles. I was experiencing an existential crisis (indulgent, I know), so I called up two classmates whom I barely knew but already felt connected to.

"Hey, let's get out of here. Let's go to -- I dunno -- Johnny Rockets at the Promenade and grab dinner. I'll drive."

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The Promenade adorned with lights for the holidays. Photo by Matt A/Evasion Photography

We sat around the table outside. It was warm autumn day in Southern California. This was back in 2004, before the big box stores arrived on the Third Street Promenade in Santa Monica, sweeping the panhandlers and unlicensed street performers under the rug to transform it into a tourist destination.

My friends and I pretended to be adults as we lamented our troubles. We were all going through bizarre roommate drama. Macy's roommate situation had devolved into random messages from strange men, Stacy's roommate situation involved a visit from the paramedics, and my own roommate situation found me requesting a new place to live within university housing.

Finishing our milkshakes and fries, we noticed a street vendor with a cardboard sign and a cat on his shoulder. The cat was dressed in a shiny silk vest because she was a psychic cat -- she was Sister Clara Clairvoyant. For five dollars she would tell you your fortune.

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Five dollars seems like a small price to pay for my future (or, at the very least, a bit of entertainment). Photo by Malingering

This seemed a small price to pay for such important information, and I was feeling a little desperate for an answer, so I sat down on the stool in front of the man and his cat and handed over my money.

Sister Clara was, of course, no actual oracle, rather just a cute, well-trained cat with no fear of crowds, who didn't seem to mind her harness, leash, and vest ... but let's suspend our disbelief and pretend that she was, indeed, a psychic cat, and that her human in tow was, in fact, the priest serving her temple of vision.

The man instructed me to roll up my five dollar bill, so I did, and Sister Clara gingerly plucked it from my fingers between her paws. Then the man mumbled an incantation, looked briefly at my palm, and whispered something to the cat, offering her a basket of neatly rolled up tiny scrolls. Sister Clara meowed, her green eyes focused, and after a moment of hesitation, selected my fortune, handing it to me the same way she took my money. The reading was done.

"What does it say?" Macy asked as I unrolled the paper. I showed it to her. "That's really vague," she said.

Allow me to repeat the fortune: "Finally, your good days are coming. Let love come into your life, which will amaze even you. Take advantage of meeting the best person who is quite compatible with you. So do all you can to keep a happy balance."

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This isn't me. But, as you can see, the Psychic Cats were a famous 3rd St. staple. Photo by Mulling it Over

That year I fell in love with a boy who introduced me to My Bloody Valentine and the Oakland A's and the art of drinking beer slowly on a Tuesday night. It wasn't really love, but for years I thought he was the "best person who is quite compatible" with me. We dated throughout college with the reckless passion of two young, stupid, aimless people. I thought my "good days" had come. We broke up after trying to live together. Sister Clara had been wrong.

But while my romantic relationship had ended, my friendship with Macy and Stacy persevered. Years after our first trip to the Promenade, we went to see a friend's art show at a gallery in Santa Monica. Gone were the street vendors -- the man who would dance on roller skates to a retro stereo blasting music, the kids who would do backflips down the corridor and then offer their upturned caps for change, the transient population taking advantage of the weather, and, sadly, the feline oracle and her human priest. In their places loomed a Gap, an American Apparel, and an Urban Outfitters, along with tourists who tripped as they stared at the dazzling displays.

It was then that it occurred to me that Sister Clara had not been referring to romantic love, but the love of eternal friendship -- specifically with Macy and Stacy, who had been present the night of my fortune-telling. Indeed, the steadfastness of our friendship "amazed even myself." We had remained friends while my romances came and went.

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According to other accounts, sometimes the cats wore dresses. Photo by Bright Green Pants

Until, that is, I moved to San Francisco and our friendship dissolved in the universal solvent of time, distance, and actual adulthood. People's priorities and practices change, and I admit I stretched the patience of my friends with my emotional needs, as I navigated my rocky uprooting to a new city.

Now I consider the fortune of Sister Clara, recalling that night, balmy still with the leftovers of summer, when my now-former friends and I sat huddled around a table at a faux-'50s chain restaurant pretending to be grown-ups. I'd been so naive -- I thought I was going through the worst time of my life when, really, it was the best time of my life, and I had wasted it worrying about a future I couldn't control. Sister Clara didn't actually know anything.

Or maybe she knew everything. This is no revelation, of course, but the fortune she bestowed upon me is that the future is unpredictable. Just now I searched through old photos, trying to find the one Macy (or was it Stacy?) took of me receiving my feline fortune. I am sure the photo exists, but I can't find it. I wasted a lot of time looking through snapshots, digging in vain for some proof that night actually happened.

And in doing so I fell down a shaft of regret -- I wish I had not said some of those mean things I said to my college boyfriend, I wish I had found a therapist in San Francisco sooner so I would not have burdened my friends ... I wish, I wish, I wish. But just as I wasted my youth worrying about my future, I realize now I am wasting my wisdom worrying about the past.

As Sister Clara said, "Do all you can to keep a happy balance." I suppose that balance is to remain present.

Got a Cathouse Confessional to share?

We're looking for purrsonal stories from our readers about life with their cats. E-mail confess@catster.com -- we want to hear from you!

What I never anticipated was in addition to life-saving work, there’s a flipside. I call it the freak factor. Yes, I’m referring to dealing with people.

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To be fair, if someone wants to adopt from us, I don’t blindly give up the cat. Each person has to fill out a pre-adoption application. I call the person's vet for a reference. I do a home visit. Some people cruelly joke that it’s easier to purchase a handgun than it is to adopt a kitten.

I recently got an application for our foster cat Bongo. I rescued Bongo from a kill shelter. He had no hope of ever getting out alive because the shelter in question euthanizes 98 percent of the more than 300 cats that arrive every month.

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Bongo gets to know me. Photo by Robin A.F. Olson

Bongo has severe nerve damage to his right front leg, so he can’t walk on it. I’ve had four vets review his X-rays and confirm that Bongo can keep his leg, but this means whoever adopts him must be willing to have his leg examined occasionally.

The application in question left me cold. The person is unemployed, she lives out of state (too far to do a home visit), and she didn’t provide much more than a single-word answer to the questions on the form. I had a bad feeling about it, but because I wanted to be fair, I called her vet.

A person at the vet's office reported she’d brought her cat to them a few days ago and had it euthanized. The cat was 14 years old and had a mass in her abdomen. I asked whether the cat had come in for any care prior to being put down, and the person said no.

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Bongo likes what he sees. Photo by Robin A.F. Olson

I wanted to spare this woman’s feelings, so instead of denying her outright, I wrote saying we could not do an out-of-state adoption, hoping it would be enough to send her on her way.

She volleyed back with an accusatory (uncorrected) email saying: “How can you turn down me. I thought SPCA'S and any kind of animal shelter looks for homes for these sweet pets. Your breaking my heart even more. I had my heart set on hoping to get him..Please let me adopted Bongo.”

Along with her messages were two photos -- one of her holding her dead cat, the other one of a tin containing her cat’s cremains. When I saw the photos, my jaw hit the floor.

It was a cruel thing to do, but in the photos I saw why she went off the deep end about my foster. Bongo looked exactly like her deceased cat!

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Bongo does resemble this cat who crossed the Rainbow Bridge.

I’m sorry, but a cat is not a lamp you broke. You can’t go to the store and get a new one just like it to replace it.

It happened to be my birthday, and all I wanted to do was go out for a seafood lunch along the shoreline. I rarely go out, and it was a special treat, but now that this person was ramping up her tactics, I began to wonder whether it was safe to leave.

No sooner than my partner Sam and I began our trip to the coast, the voicemail chime went off on my mobile phone. I began to read the choppy voice-to-text transcription: “Hi, this is ____ that I'm at the new town. Please station…”

The Newtown police station? She’s at the police station trying to get my address?

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Photo by Robin A.F. Olson

She had driven more than an hour to do what? Did she figure that in person she could “charm” me, changing my mind about adopting Bongo to a crazy person? What was she going to do if I didn’t give her the cat?

In a fit of rage I called her back. How dare she pull these dramatics when all I had done was be respectful to her? I told her I found her actions “alarming” (though I wanted to use much harsher language). She told me that I had mental problems and then hung up on me. What do I do now? Do I race home and protect my house? Do I have my lunch and not let her hysterics ruin my day?

I had a lousy lunch. We canceled our other plans and returned home.

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This lobster turned out to be rather unfriendly. Photo by Robin A.F. Olson

As soon as we arrived, I frantically scanned the house checking on each of my eight cats. They were fine. I entered the foster room and saw Bongo, sitting there on his cat tree, looking at me with a puzzled expression.

Relieved that all was well, I returned to my office and sat down at my computer.

The woman hadn’t given up. Waiting in my inbox was another accusatory email. This time her goal was to belittle me. I fought the urge to reply because I didn’t trust myself to not to fire back at her.

I had Sam draft a reply. He’s the vice president of our rescue and was far enough removed from the situation to lend some clarity. His response was plainly written, fact-based, and not aggressive in tone. His letter included a few words in my defense that I was grateful to read: “Your assessment of Robin is unfair and just plain rude. We deal with the public every day - from government officials and the media to small children -- and she's a skilled and empathetic communicator. People who know her -- as opposed to people who merely shout at her on the phone -- know this.”

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Photo by Robin A.F. Olson

To date I haven’t heard from her again, and I’ve moved on to reviewing another application. This one says “there is no way I’m going to let you do a home visit -- get real. I have three kids. We need to get a cat this week, so when can we come see them?”

Here we go again.

Meanwhile, Bongo is still patiently waiting for a less “enthusiastic” adopter.

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Robin A.F. Olson writes the cat-centric blog Covered in Cat Hair and is president and founder of Kitten Associates Inc. Olson lives in Newtown, CT, with an ever-changing number of cats. When she's not scooping litter pans, she does stand-up comedy and is a spotter for the National Weather Service.

And one note to everyone: We supervise all play with handled bags or we tear off the handles if they're going to stick around awhile -- we don't want anyone getting hurt.

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"This is totally my bag, baby."

Me: "The cats love it when we come home from the grocery store with bags. What cat doesn't? I'll usually scatter them around the kitchen and sprinkle the insides with catnip. They dive right in."

John: "I agree. The cats love the bags for about half an hour, and then they go sleep off the catnip buzz somewhere else."

This is true. Sometimes. But who am I to know whether they'll return later? How sad would they be if they woke up and remembered the awesome bags in the kitchen, then went back only to find them gone? 

Me: "You'd feel terrible, wouldn't you?"

John: "They wouldn't remember. They had their fun and moved on."

Me: "How do you know?"

John: "They told me."

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"So many bags, so little time."

So it's not that he is against bags on the floor -- he's pro-bag -- he just doesn't want the bags there forever. 

Me: "How long is forever?"

John: "When they're finished playing in them."

Me: "Agree to disagree."

Next up is the laundry basket -- the holy grail of cat comfort! Our Phoebe has a magical laundry magnet for a nose. She can be on the other side of the house and sense when a fresh basket of warm laundry is within a five-room radius. She immediately pounces in the basket, preventing us from folding clothes. Darn. She'll snuggle up in the basket bed for hours. 

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"Warm or not, I love a laundry basket"

John: "Too long in the baskets."

Me: "Okay, what are the basket regulations?"

John: "When the clothes are no longer warm, we get to fold them."

Me: "I think she can stay as long as she wants -- I can fold clothes later."

John: "You fold clothes?"

Me: "Touché."

He says he believes cats should hand over the basket after the warmth has worn off, but I've seen cats lying in full laundry baskets all day. He talks a big talk.

John: "Well, they do look comfortable."

Me: "Sucker."

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"What? I'm busy."

Boxes are probably the biggest subject of dispute. When we get something in the mail or visit Costco, the cats gather 'round to inspect the boxes. Then they vie for who gets to lie in them first -- it's usually Phoebe. Over the next hour or so, each cat has had a turn in the box and, although they may walk away for one reason or another, they always come back. Boxes are prime real estate around here. Once a sweet little cardboard number is on the market, the paper bags are suddenly shantyville.

Me: "How long for a box?"

John: "Depends on the box."

Me: "Explain."

John: "If it's out of the way, it can stay a week or even longer. I just don't want to keep tripping over it."

Me: "Like the trolley."

John: "Like the trolley."

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"My trolley makes me invisible."

Oh, the trolley. The trolley is still a sore subject. One day a few years ago, we returned from Costco with a rectangular purple box that once held "fresh cut fruit." It was love at first sight for Phoebe, who immediately plopped inside and claimed it. She wouldn't allow the other cats near it, and it became her little fort for slightly longer than the the "week or more." It was parked in the kitchen for months. We called it "the trolley" because when Phoebe was loafed inside it, she looked like she was riding a little cable car. 

Me: "Remember how we used to feed her in the trolley?"

John: "She demanded it. She got to a point where she wouldn't eat unless we fed her in the trolley. It became a feeding station."

Me: "She slept in it, ate in it, and played in it. It was adorable."

John: "Until food and stuff kept falling off the counter and inside the box. It became kind of stained after a while." 

You see, the trolley lived against the end of the kitchen counter, so scraps would ocasionally fall inside the thing. 

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"I like my trolley with a bag on the side."

John: "It was flush against the counter, but it jutted out into an already narrow section of the kitchen."

Me: "It was kind of tight, but we managed -- she just loved it. And I thought the placement was great. Really, there was nowhere else it could have gone. Our kitchen isn't that large."

John: "After a week or two, it could have been recycled."

Me: "True, and we eventually did recycle it."

John: "After it got so dirty and all of us kept falling over it."

Phoebe was a little sad at first, but we got her a smaller one and she made peace with the passing of the trolley.

Me: "Admit it -- you kind of miss the trolley. It was kind of cute."

John: "It was cute."

Me: "I do have to go to Costco this week."

John: "I don't miss it that much."

Do you and your partner or roommate disagree on anything cat-related? Tell us about it in the comments!

Read more posts by Angie Bailey:

• 6 Ways My Cats Are WAY Cooler Than Me
• 6 College Degrees for Cats
• How to Speak Cat: Welcome to the Secret World of Cat Lingo

Mostly I attribute this to childhood nightmares involving wolflike dogs surrounding my bed, growling ferociously and frothing at the mouth as they tried to rip off my hands and feet. These nightmares are why, to this very day, all of my appendages must be 100 percent under the protection of the duvet before I fall asleep.

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I relentlessly asked my parents for a sister or a dog. I got a sister.

My aunt had a cat, Morris (named after the 9Lives spokescat). I was curious about him, but he was rather feisty (read: hissed and scratched). In retrospect, I’m sure much of that could have been attributed to my chasing him around the living room trying to force my love upon him, as is my way. Poor Morris was probably just looking for an escape route.

A Sister or a Dog

It’s hard to imagine it now, but according to family lore, there was a short period of time during which a dog might have become a part of my childhood.

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An early photo of Kip being manhandled.

After four years of my parents’ undivided attention as an only child, I decided a playmate was in order. I mounted a vigorous campaign and relentlessly bombarded them with alternating wails of “I want a sister!” and “I want a dog!” (In what can only be described as some sort of miracle, I must have temporarily forgotten about those terrifying wolf-dog dreams.)

I didn’t give much thought to the difference between sisters and dogs. I just knew my friends had one or the other (or both), and it was my God-given right as an American citizen to join their ranks.

My parents asked me point-blank which I’d rather have: a sister or a dog. It was the most important decision of my 4-year-old life, and after much deliberation, I approached them and uttered the word “sister.”

I can’t tell you why I made that decision (perhaps I thought sisters were less slobbery?), but I can tell you that like most people who are pressed to commit, a short while later I suffered buyer’s remorse. Four months into my mother’s pregnancy, I announced that I’d changed my mind and wanted a dog after all. But apparently the order had been placed, and there was a strict no-return policy.

He Had Cats

So how did animals -- specifically cats -- enter my life 30 years later? No surprise, it had to do with a guy. It was a long-distance love affair; I lived in New York, he in Chicago with sibling cats Ian and Shelley. Cat ownership added a different dimension to his appeal -- sensitive, caring, responsible; someone who was secure with his own sexuality.

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Kip, far mellower than he used to be.

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Haddie, my foster fail.

Between weekends together, we spent evenings talking on the phone, recounting our days.

Me: Lonely and brooding.

Him: Recounting the latest adorable Ian and Shelley antics.

I wanted what he had.

One trip to Petco, and Kip, an objectively handsome 3-year-old gray tabby, entered my life. At Petco, he presented himself as a sweet, docile lap cat. I envisioned us together on the chaise, Kip curled up in my lap as I read or watched TV.

Then, I got him home. The moment the carrier door opened, Kip proceeded to race around the apartment for what seemed like days. Up and down the stairs. Behind, on top, and under every piece of furniture.

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Haddie, Kip, and Petie, as close as they want to get to each other.

As for holding him? Ha! He would lock his joints, press his paws into my chest, and lean his head back to get as much distance between us as possible. My boyfriend told me I’d lucked out, that most cats would have mauled me.

Eventually, as my parents had done with me, I felt it was time Kip had a sibling -- except I didn’t give him any say in the matter. Enter Petie, an extremely photogenic, timid, borderline-obese gray tuxedo. Sadly, the two never became the fast friends I’d hoped they would. Even today, it’s a big deal if they sit on opposite ends of the same piece of furniture.

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My sister, Mar, with her cat, Birdie (who is also Haddie's sister. Synchronicity, no?).

Two cats were all I wanted, but then along came Haddie, my “Forever Foster” (aka Failed Foster). On the upside, Haddie has a big crush on Kip, and whenever Petie beats up on him, Haddie is quick to retaliate. Perhaps I’ve created some sort of equilibrium with my feline excess.

Full Circle

As someone who didn't grow up with animals, I found it amazing to learn cats have little personalities and unique temperaments. Some are shy, others social. There are curious cats, scaredy cats, jealous cats, loose cats, and those who play hard to get (that actually describes quite a few of them!).

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Me with two of the goats at the Woodstock Farm sanctuary. I just fell in love with them.

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I was even charmed by this turkey.

Once I was tuned into the individuality of cats, I began noticing it in other animals. I began caring about how cows, pigs, and even chickens were treated. I visited Woodstock Farm Animal Sanctuary and fell in love with the goats, each one a character.

And wouldn’t you know it, now my sister has a cat of her own. Maybe it was part of some master plan: “My” decision to ask for a baby sister has put another cat lover on this planet!

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When I sing the oldies, she sings along. When I talk to her, she talks back. Every morning, we discuss current events, i.e., the status of the food in her dish and why there is not more of it. "Because the vet says you're too fat," I say, to which she responds by licking my granola bar.

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My calico cat, Phoenix, takes an awesome nap.

Turns out, the beautiful strangeness of calico cats is hardly limited to my little Fifi girl (one of her approximately 800 nicknames). Here are five fun facts about our beloved tricolor kitties.

1. Calico cats are almost always female

Calico is not a breed of cat but a color pattern. To be considered a "true" calico, a cat's coat must display the colors white, black, and orange (or muted versions of these colors). Calicos are almost always female because coat color is linked to genetics, and black and orange fur are each linked to the X chromosome. (White fur is coded by another gene.) Therefore, because female cats have two X chromosomes, they can display both colors at once. Male cats, meanwhile, typically have only one X chromosome, so they tend to be either orange OR black. 

Fifi certainly fits the bill of a calico. She's a lovely lady who proudly wears her true colors.

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In cold weather, Phoenix likes to burrow.

2. They are good luck

According to folklore, calico cats are lucky. Back in the day, Japanese sailors traveled with calicos to ensure a safe voyage and protect their ships from harm. In England and the United States, male calicos are considered especially lucky thanks to their rarity. In the U.S., they are sometimes called "money cats," due to the mistaken belief that they can be sold for top dollar. In actuality, male calicos are almost always sterile, making them of no use to the breeders who might wish to purchase them. 

Also, maneki neko, the Japanese talisman frequently seen in shops and restaurants, is almost always a calico. Maneki neko is sometimes called the fortune cat in English. Pay attention to her paws: A raised left paw is said to bring in customers, while the right paw bestows good luck and wealth. Also, the higher the paw is raised, the luckier you're gonna get.

Fifi is certainly lucky -- at least in my book. She sleeps under the covers and keeps my toes warm in the wintertime. That makes me feel very fortunate indeed.

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Maneki neko is considered lucky -- and is frequently depicted as a calico. Japanese lucky cat figurine by Shutterstock.com

3. What about tortoiseshell cats?

They are similar to calicos, but not the same. Tortoiseshell cats are also predominantly female, having black and orange coloring. But while calicos are often mostly white, torties have a brindled coat coloring and almost no white markings. Like calicos, they can be feistier and more talkative than the average kitty and are often said to possess a personaltiy trait known as "tortitude." Kitties with tortitude are allegedly strong-willed, independent, temperamental, talkative, and demanding.

And, yeah -- that describes my Phoenix. Does it describe your calico or tortie?

Bonus awesome mashups: Tortoiseshell + tabby = torbie; calico + tabby = caliby.

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Phoenix thinks on top of my flowers is a perfectly acceptable place to sleep.

4. Male calicos are almost always sterile

Approximately one in 3,000 calicos is male, and only one in 10,000 of those males is fertile. For a male cat to display the calico colors, he must have two X chromosomes and one Y chromosome (XXY). A similar condition called Klinefelter's syndrome, or XXY syndrome, is found in humans.

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When I talk to Phoenix, she talks back.

5. Calicos are the official state cat of Maryland

Thanks to the similarity of their coloring to the Baltimore oriole, the state bird, and the Baltimore checkerspot butterfly, the state insect, calicos were granted the lofty title of Official Cat of Maryland on Oct. 1, 2001.

During their 11-year stint in power, calico cats have demanded scheduled nap times in the workplace and more access to expansive sun puddles. They have also sought to deregulate the fishing industry. As of this article, they're still working on it.

I have a long history of putting my pet's needs before my own. I'm the person who will cancel plans, meetings, and even vacations if my cat or dog is sick. While working in dog, cat, and equine rescue, I've been bitten, clawed, stomped on, had all my toes broken, torn the cartilage in my hip, and had numerous fingers broken. Yet, I always happily go back for more. My husband says I have a Mother Teresa complex with pets.

So I don't know why it comes as any surprise to me that when I review our modest finances every month, a large chunk of our income goes to our cats. 

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Me with Tailsy. I put my cats' needs before my own.

I'm not talking the occasional expensive vet visit or a splurge on a three-tiered cat jungle gym (I registered for one when we got married). I mean my cats' day-to-day living expenses -- food, supplements, and medication. 

I hear this all the time at the pet store where I work, "My cat/dog eats better than I do." Though I either laugh or roll my eyes at this pet-boutique cliche, in my case it's true. And I wouldn't change a thing.  

If I want my cats to live to be the John Connors of the feline future, I need to feed them the very best, right? 

Brandy is 12 years old now, but still has enough energy and vigor to torture me every morning at 6 when she demands to be fed, as well as punish me with ankle attacks or vomit when I come home too late at night. Not to mention her coat is like BUTTER. 

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Brandy, old but still spry.

My other cat, Tailsy, through great food and good ol' Louise Hung-folksy wisdom, has healed beautifully from the various battle scars she acquired while on the mean streets of Honolulu. Their vet has even called interns into the exam room to marvel at my cats' magical healing powers after illness or accident.

So what am I feeding my cats? Honestly, nothing too crazy -- no Secret Hollywood Cat Diet or Ancient Chinese Cat Secret. I simply feed them raw food, vitamins, and the necessary medications for Brandy's kidney and thyroid condition. 

The thing is, I feed them the way someone with twice my annual income would feed their pet. I don't live beyond my means, but my cats do. 

Some may think this is a little wacko. Cats and dogs have been living perfectly well on regular old commercial pet food for years. But after working in the pet care industry, and knowing the crap that goes into a lot of pet foods, I can't bear to feed my cats food that I know may not maximize their life and well-being. 

I am hypervigilant about what I put in my body, so why not do that for my pets if at all possible? 

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All that good nutrition has increased Brandy's vocabulary remarkably.

I don't have kids, (much) debt, or eat meat, and I'm lucky enough to live in a two-income household. If it's between a new pair of jeans that make my ass look scrumptious or the expensive fish oil my cats need to stay lean, mean, and bitchy, I'll go for the fish oil any day. 

But oodalolly! It's hard sometimes! When running errands, my husband and I can only laugh when we realize that we've spent more than half of our money that day on cat necessities, but have to decide if we can stretch the contents of our freezer for another few days. 

I don't judge those who prioritize differently. On a daily basis, I guide pet owners through the best way to maximize their dollars and still do the best for their pets. There is more than one way to feed a cat, and I realize that not everyone is going to sink so much of their paycheck into raw, non-GMO, free-range chicken with bone ground into it.

In my opinion, it's what will help them live the longest and healthiest lives possible. I'm trying to make them live forever. 

There's some controversy amongst vets and pet folks as to whether or not raw food is safe for pets or humans, but I've been feeding this way for years now, and as long as you don't lick your fingers after handling it, your chances of getting salmonella poisoning are almost nonexistent. 

Just treat it the way you would any raw meat. If it looks gray, green, or putrid, THROW IT OUT. It shocks me how many people ask, "How do I know when my cat's raw meat has gone bad?" Really? 

Plus, the raw cat food I buy is packaged in such a way that much of the bacteria is killed. It's honestly safer than most of the pre-packaged meat you see at the grocery store. 

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My husband made this picture for me. We're THOSE people.

Raw food is a big movement in pet feeding right now, and I for one am a proponent. By and large, cats and dogs who eat raw food have healthier teeth, skin, weight, and digestion. I could go on and on, but it essentially has to do with the ease of absorption raw food affords an animal and the live enzymatic properties present in raw meat. 

I'm not going to lie, raw food, specifically the brand I feed, Primal, is not cheap. It ranges anywhere form $20 to $40-something dollars a bag, depending on the protein source and size. The largest bag they sell is 6 lbs. 

So yeah, my cats are basically eating filet mignon while I'm buying two-for-one tater tots. 

However, if feeding raw is something you might want to do, your cat or dog can still get the benefits of raw food by topping their kibble with some raw or raw freeze-dried meat. 

Raw freeze-dried or dehydrated foods like Primal, Stell and Chewy's, or The Honest Kitchen are available at many pet stores. They are easy to feed, easy to store, and if sealed in a container properly can stay good for more than a year. 

My cats make me so happy. They are part of my family and take care of my sanity in ways no human ever could. When I have a bad day, they don't see all the embarrassment or shame, they only look at me as comfort and safety. I do believe they love me in their own way. 

So I buy the fancy cat food, and I fill my gas tank only a quarter of the way full. So be it. 

Of course there are days I get a little pissy about forking over 30 or 40 bucks for cat food, who wouldn't? But to get all crazy cat-lady for a second, when I hear the sound of contented kitties, happily munching away at their food, it's so totally worth it. 

To see the full version of this article, which includes information on supplements for cats, read it on xojane.com.

How do you go above and beyond for your pet? What do you splurge on for your four-legged friends? Do your pets eat your paycheck? Let us know in the comments!

Got a Cathouse Confessional to share?

We're looking for purrsonal stories from our readers about life with their cats. E-mail confess@catster.com -- we want to hear from you!