Growing up in Port Neches, TX, I owned mostly dogs and rarely a cat. My dad was opposed to cats explaining that they carried germs. I suppose his experience with cats getting into the trash, leaving chicken remains, soggy vegetable peels and such nastiness strewed across the lawn, was the basis for his cat and germ theory. As a result, my dad kept a bungy cord strapped across the trash can lid to keep all germ carrying varmints out of the garbage.
Even though Daddy was not a lover of cats, we did manage to have a few take up residence with us. One black and white stray cat came, stayed at least a couple of months with us and was gone one day as suddenly as it came. Another cat, belonging to my oldest brother, came when his landlord wouldn't allow the Siamese cat in the house my brother rented from him. I don't think my dad was pleased the cat had to live with us, but with Mom's encouragement, he was tolerate of the feline. The name of the cat escapes me, but she should have been called "the queen of Sheba" because she acted like we were her servants. The first winter she became "great with kittens" and would make us all laugh as she planted herself in the middle of the living room floor to bath her big belly of babies. The pregnant cat leaned back in the most ungraceful manner to lick her belly and then she'd wobble backwards like a Weeble from the weight of her tummy. All of us, even Daddy, would roll with laughter at the sight. She gave birth to the kittens in the dead of winter. Back then, we actually experienced cold, sometimes freezing, winters down on the coast. "Sheba" lived in what we called, "the little house", a one-room apartment attached to our garage. Mama made sure the little space heater in the bathroom was lit each morning to keep the kittens and their mom warm during the day. That mama cat could be found each morning curled up in the bathroom sink all toasty and warm while her babies were freezing in the little cardboard box-bed we'd fixed for them on the floor. The kittens must have been born too early because Sheba would not feed them. A few of the kittens died right off. Mama brought the last remaining naked kitten into the house wrapped in a towel covered shoebox. With its eyes squeezed shut and almost no life in its tiny body, we attempted to feed it warm milk with an eye dropper. I prayed over that little kitten to live, but there just wasn't enough strength in it to survive.
The next liter of kittens Sheba had came around Christmas when our part dachshund, part mutt dog, Prissy, also gave birth to puppies. The cat and dog had four babies each. The eight canines and felines were hilarious to watch play outside. Although, one skeptical black kitty did not share her siblings' trust in the four furry rowdy puppies and opposed any approach of a puppy. That tiny fur ball of a cat would arch its back as best it could, and push out a teensy hissss at any of the puppies that came near. The other seven playful animal babies did play with each other. One of the kittens even invented a game. A small bush near a low step outside "the little house" caught the curiosity of the kitten. It began to go up on the low porch step, jump to the small bush nearby, and with all the joy of a kid, would ride a limp branch down to the ground. Then, like a little child on a playground slide, the kitty would run back up the step and take the branch ride again. Soon the other three kittens were playing on the ride and eventually one of the puppies decided he'd give it a try too. The first time the puppy leaped to the branch he soon learned he was not as agile as his kitty cousins and too heavy to ride the branch. He landed on the ground below with an abrupt flop! Such were a few of the funny animals I owned during my youth. My childhood pets obviously conjure up joyful childhood memories.
Homer and Baby are great company to me on days when I'm not going anywhere to work. Which seems to be a lot lately, but that's another blog for another time. Homer comes to me while I sit at the computer desk and standing on his back legs, reaches up to tap my shoulder and will "mee-ow", which is cat for "I want to go outside, please open the door." So, I reach around to the patio door knob and he happily rushes out to prowl the mysteries of our backyard jungle. As Baby hears the squeak of the door opening, she'll stroll slowly to the door and eventually join Homer on the patio. Her pastime is spent sitting up on the small brick pony-wall in the breezeway watching the cars pass by on the street. Homer, the ever diligent bird watcher-lizard hunter, takes safari in the tall weeds of our back fence.
With our human children grown, moved out and on their own, I like the presence of our cat pets in our home. They are the quiet children we never had (because 3 little wiggly boys are noisy) and the more independent of our kids. Its easy to take a weekend trip out of town and leave the cats to fin for themselves. Even though I don't expect the cats will take care of me in my golden years, they do keep me company brushing my legs every now and then, as if to say, "I love you". They keep us entertained and give us companionship, always willing to simply hang out with us. That makes me feel wanted and I like that.
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| Homer playing in the yard |
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| Baby keeping watch |
