Cats, Part One

No, not the musical - although I did see that when it came to the Fox Theater in Atlanta way back when dinosaurs roamed freely up and down Peachtree street. If you ever have the chance to see a show at the Fox, go - especially if you can get front row center loge seats...although, there's no bad seat at the Fox.

But I digress.

My friend Rachel wrote a post that mentioned stray cats. It reminded me that I haven't told you about our strays. I must remedy that!

First, I will share with you one of my (many) peculiar philosophies: We are responsible for cats. We, humans, are. We made them, manipulated their shape and size to become more pleasing to us. What we forgot to do was work out how to shrink their ego, their will, their spirit to a house-cat size. They all think they're tigers or the cats of the desert, not tiny little tabbies or tuxedos or jersey-spotted beasties. Because we altered them, we have a responsibility to them, to provide for them - we owe them. I did mention it's a peculiar philosophy.

So, on with the story!

Last Spring/Summer, a mum-cat had her kittens on our back steps. Hmm...turns out that black and white cat I thought was fighting the orange tabby tom from the neighbors? Was actually not fighting, exactly. The noises they make are not all that distinct, so it was (I think) an honest mistake.

I found out about the little family when I chased mum-cat away from the front of my house because she was pilfering my lizards (she had a big fat one in her mouth, still kicking). I felt awful - she was just trying to feed herself and her babies. She kept right on running, but the babies were halfway up the back steps and too small to jump. The peach colored one hissed at me and jumped anyway, following hot on the mum-cat's tail. The tuxedo (who looks just like its mum) growled and shot past me, tumbling down the steps and sailing off the bottom landing, utterly failing its saving throws for grace, style, and agility - it landed on its back, blinked, and hauled ass into the woods, meowling and feeding my guilt with worry I'd made it hurt itself. The last kitten simply huddled against a step and watched me with huge eyes. It was shaking, skinny, terrified. I picked it up, ever so carefully, and pet it a little. I could feel ribs, spine, leg bones. poor baby - it was the runt, and not getting much milk or prey. I honestly didn't know if the wee bairn would live very long.

To be continued (or this would be a very long post, indeed)...