You see, when I talk to people about cats and cat rescue- I can see the moment where their eyes glaze over and then I feel kinda funny. When I write a blog post, I never have to see the glazing eyes as people navigate away and most people who visit the blog know what they are in for and are there on purpose.
So hi, I'm Kristen from Tampa. I am a cat rescuer that takes in feral and stray cats, gets them healthy, teaches them to cat and to live with humans, takes them to the vet for medicine and for removal of trouble nuggets and kitten production sacks and then helps them find forever homes where they can be part of their very own pride. The work is sometimes frustrating and super gross, involves a lot of house cleaning, occasional blood sacrifices and sometimes costs rather a bit of money to upkeep the clowder in chow, toys and places for chow to be excreted. but it is often filled with soft purrs, happy meows and some great reward that is hard for me to define.
There is a peace in a cat that feels safe enough to sleep in a sprawl across your couch, rather than curled in the smallest possible ball under the couch. The first time a kitten motors up and begins to purr like an un-tuned motorcycle is absolutely priceless. Moments where you see a sick cat break through their fever and fear and their eyes become quick and lively again as they immediately begin to search for new mischief.
The current cast of characters at home:
Neville
The boss. 10 year old gigantic hauspanther who is black as night, sleek as satin but is a whore for belly pets and catnip. He rules with a velvet paw and sheer size, knocking over uppity foster cats and just laying on top of them until they submit. He may have learned that tactic from me.
Neville keeps the peace and greets every guest to the house quite thoroughly. In this picture, Neville looks quite the normal sized black cat with a tiny white locket of fur on his neck. Understand that the basket in which he is reclining is a full sized laundry basket. He's really, really large and seems to be built on a different scale than most cats. He comes in over 20 pounds and probably contains the heart of a neutron star.
Scully
The under-boss. The dominant female of the clowder is a brown marble tabby with more than a little bit of attitude. She is a bit tubby, but does not care. She keeps the others in line, sometimes with a punch from her balled up kitty fist and then returns to looking decorative. She's also a terrible blanket sucker who likes to nurse on my bedding and be held like a baby at night. She does not admit this to the other cats and hisses at any that attempt to observe her nightly rituals.
I am fairly certain that Scully truly believes I am her mom cat. She was born on my back porch and was placed in my hands by her mom when she was less than 2 hours old and still wet. I asked mom, Caramel, to take her back and finish cooking and feeding for me. Thankfully Carmy agreed. However, every time I visited the nursery, Carmy would dutifully pick up this kitten and bring her to me like a gift. This is somewhere between sweet and cat child trafficking, but Carmy was pretty darned happy to be taken in when she had gotten herself in trouble and wasn't getting enough to eat while super preggers in the feral colony. In thanks for room and board, she gave me one of her kittens. I really didn't know how to feel about this, but she was terribly cute and every time I petted or cuddled her, her tail would whip around as if she was so joyful she could not contain herself.
Tell me, would you be able to say no to this little critter being gently placed in your hands by her own mother? Well, I couldn't.
Kitler
The omega cat. Kitler got his name by having the mustache of a particular dictator and being a famous coward as a kitten. Not much has changed except his size. He's nearly as big as Neville and is actually Neville's cat. It's kinda like the mafia boss and his nerdy friend that cooks the books but isn't so into mafia sports or baseball bats.
Twice, Kitler has gone on accidental Meowschpringe by being rather heavy, sleeping against window screens and tumbling out of first floor windows onto the ground below. It usually takes me 5-14 days to get him to un-freak himself so that I can catch him again. At least his belly is cottony soft.
He's a beautiful boy, just terrified of nearly everything in the world. Sometimes, even me no matter that he sleeps in a bed with me every night. His little peanut brain just seems to reset to panic mode and he forgets that in over six years I have never tried to eat him. Good thing he's cute in a totalitarian sort of way.
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| Not kidding- this is how I caught him last Meowschpringe. A string, tied to a ruler, propping open the porch door. Place smelly wet food on porch, wait, watch cat walk heedlessly into trap, pull string, door slams, cat caught. This is only supposed to work for roadrunners and coyotes. |
Susan Pevensie
This particular queen of Narnia looking nothing like her three tuxie siblings and decided not to go back through the wardrobe. Instead, she parked her fluffy backside in my closet and decided that was home base. I was not excited about closet cat, but she was so frightened or people that she would wet herself if someone tried to pet her. As she otherwise was not a bother, I just left food, water and litter near the closet and resigned myself to my unhelpful ladies maid.
One day I came home to find her beside my knocked over clothes hamper, rolling through my outside work clothes and underwear. Awesome. I just put all of that away and forgot about it until, that night, she climbed into bed with me and snuggled up with a look of pure love and adoration. I guess she just needed to know me by smells? She now loves the cuddles but is still an inveterate and unapologetic pantie thief.
J. Alfred Prufrock
I didn't mean to have another cat- seriously I didn't. But this dumb and lovey snowshoe cat started in my bathroom and ended up in my heart. Within hours of arriving, he was nursing me as I was very ill. He spent days laying on my chest as a living hot water bottle and on the couch behind me, petting my head with his paw. J. Alfred is not the brightest star in the sky, but he sure is sweet, patient and undemanding. I can drape him over my shoulder as a stole and recite Elliott to him and he does not dare disturb out universe.
He does have one funny habit of *adoring* long skirts. Any woman wearing long skirts will quickly find J Alfred's derriere parked beneath their skirt, perfectly happy sitting between her feet. When he does this, I just call him J. Edgar and move on. Who am I to judge?
So, those are the current resident inmates. I'll write about the foster inmates soon.
