Feral Follies

It’s safe to say I live in a cat house though which of us three women here is the quintessential “crazy cat lady” it’s difficult to pinpoint. We are all over 40. We are all essentially homebodies. We all talk to our cats as if they were toddlers. I’ve two of my own, indoor only. They’ve been with me for 8 and 11 years respectively and I would move mountains for them. Each of my three housemates has one indoor-outdoor as their own. And then we have the ferals. Mama, Bobby, TJ, Mango. Mama is the mother of three of our cats – 2 tuxes and a calico. The others, 2 are truly feral and one we discovered was abandoned because when we took her to get her spayed, the vet discovered she already had an unregistered microchip from the next county down.

Bobby in “his” chair.

Well, the orange ferals, Mango and Bobby, have decided they are moving in. Mango was first when he wandered in for breakfast one morning because he wanted the “good food” and just never left. He quickly learned to love the lap and now thinks he’s looking of the castle. Bobby, a real tomcat until he got snipped, he’s slowly getting better with people. He loves the head rubs but don’t dare touch him anywhere past the shoulders. He has a biting habit he needs to break.

TJ the Scaredy Cat.

TJ, the abandoned female, she’s a lover when she wants to be but only outside and only if you’re sitting down with your hair back. She’s afraid of long hair for some reason so I always have to have mine up in a bun. She could be sweet if she wasn’t so paranoid.

La menagerie, minus a few.

9 cats. 1 house. And truth be told, every hairball, every “accident,” every item knocked out a shelf or table or counter, it’s all worth it for those cuddles. Hopefully though we are not on our way to becoming another Hemingway house.