The cats are recruiting me

I was not a fan of the feline growing up. Any animal that you can leave alone for a week, and upon returning home find it smoking a cigar, eating a pizza and watching a pay-per-view movie doesn't really need me. My feelings toward cats were reinforced by my friend Wayne's cat, a little orange, cross-eyed guy who had an amazing vertical leap, employed solely to bite my finger if I was standing, as well as a story my mother didn't hesitate to tell any time a cat was mentioned ("It tried to get the milk from your uncle's crib! It tried to kill him for his milk!"). Dogs, on the other hand, were where it was at. Dogs at least warned you when you were going to get a whuppin'. To say cats were high on my list of favorite things would be like saying kryptonite was high on Superman's list, or Father's Day high on Luke Skywalker's.

So, it's kind of a transition to go from that to, years later, someone who adores cats, owns one (sort of), and has an army of others ready to fight for him when the revolution eventually comes. Below is a picture of the troops in the mess hall (back porch) at breakfast.



Really, my love of cats began with a matted, skinny little guy in a tuxedo.



One day I noticed him on the stairs of my back porch. He was just sitting there, watching the world go by in that unique cat way. I immediately noticed he wasn't in the least bit afraid of me. He was obviously used to people because he was very laid back and not at all skittish. Just in case, though, I approached him very slowly, and when he just sat there staring at me, I pet him. The little guy seemed really thin, something I didn't expect because he looked so much bigger underneath his mass of fur. I put a can of tuna in a bowl for him and he went right at it. I couldn't believe how hungry he was. So over the next few days I would see him sitting out there and would feed him once a day. Finally after a couple of weeks, I decided I'd like to let him inside, but not knowing whether or not he had fleas, I made an appointment for him to get a checkup. My boy got a dose of flea meds, a rabies shot, a feline leukemia test, a stool test - $300.00 worth of attention, really. So after all that, I bought him a collar, a name tag (having newly christened him Mr. Mooch), a litter box, and all sorts of toys. Of course, the day after I put his new collar and name tag on I got a call saying "we live next door to you. You might have thought our cat was a stray because we found a name tag on him."

Yes, I did think this sweet, malnutritioned, flea-infested boy (at the time) was a stray.

Turns out Mr. Mooch (which 18 months later I, along with all of his new friends, still call him)is actually named Meow Meow. When I asked why I was told it was because that was the first sound he made. That makes about as much sense as naming a child "Scream" or "Poop". Regardless, Mr. Mooch essentially became my cat. His "owners" still live next door, but they don't seem to care. I keep him in at night, I take him to the vet, I feed him, I buy him his monthly flea and heart worm medication. In return, he runs to me excitedly from his perch in the backyard every time my car pulls into the driveway and proceeds to brush against my legs, snuggles on my lap every night, puts his paw on my head when I lean over him, and licks my hand when I hold it out to him. I think he knows I belong to him.

As for the troops..... that's an interesting story, too. I think that'll be a separate post, though.