Now, you don’t know that.
Ron Collins

I was not a “cat person” but my wife decided to adopt a black kitten that was the last remaining of a close friend’s litter. I pleaded with her to return her new furry friend but she refused and that cute fuzzy little kitten proceeded to engrave her signature on our door trim, Persian rug and every piece of upholstered wood furniture within her reach.

It was apparent that all of our dogs, except tiny Bobby Jr., viewed “Bailey”, as as a midday snack, so we had to convert our living room into a protective enclosure with custom crafted, hinged wood gates ($$) that greatly restricted the freedom of movement we once enjoyed. From the living room, our poor dogs looked like prisoners peering through the gate’s wood pickets as they monitored every movement of their potential prey.

Admittedly, we were slow to pursue reproductive intervention for Bailey and one afternoon, after writhing on the floor for a few minutes, she bolted through the open door to our deck and disappeared into the woods. I felt bad for my wife who spent the next two days searching the area for Bailey, not because I thought she would never find her cat, but because cats don’t come when you call their name.

Bailey showed up at our door after her 3 day excursion and, 6 1/2 weeks later, we had 5 new cute, fuzzy kittens including 3 blacks and 2 grays. It was nice to see some diversity in the litter but it didn’t help us find any takers willing to adopt them. At this point, we had learned our lesson and proceeded to make arrangements with our veterinarian to have the whole lot of them fixed.

The process dragged out too long and, during the interim, we suspect that one of our 2 new black males, not sure which, decided to engage in a little incestuous activity with their sister, “Butterbutt”, the only black female of the litter. Six weeks later — and behold — we had added 4 new black, cute fuzzy kittens to our ever expanding feline family.

When you have 9 cats; “hey, why not add one more?”, was the logic my wife ascribed to her decision to introduce the aptly named “Rogue Kitty”, a black and white spotted female cat she picked up in a parking lot who, she explained, “looked cold”.

All of our other cats view Rogue Kitty as their enemy since she does not share their bloodline, so we keep her separated in our master bedroom where she has engraved her signature on our bed frame, our antique wood wardrobe and our door trim. Of course, she prefers to sleep against and on top of us during the night and regularly awakes us when alternating between my wife and I.

I am now, decidedly, a cat person.

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