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Kisses from a kitty

Beauty came to me as a feral cat.

I didn’t know.

Cats had definitely been in my life more than out. Being a normal (and quite expected) part of my home, I don’t think I paid them all that much attention. I do remember one who, living in the basement, had carried each tiny kitten upstairs when the bottom level flooded. And one who was never quite the same after bring shut by my brother in the refrigerator. (Or is the latter simply a memory too good to be true?)

Cats, I knew, needed food and a clean litter box and someplace to sleep, and purred a lot and like to be petted. The latter two qualities frequently in combination. I do recall the cat before Beauty would just sit and purr. I always presumed she was having happy thoughts and would smile as I walked by.

Other cats deserving of their memories include the first one I had in Berkeley. I no longer remember names or even, in this case, if she moved with me from Omaha or was a true California cat. And then Tucker who escaped his “keeper” while I was on vacation and came home eighteen months (as I recall) later, smelling of garage and somehow having crossed a major river.

For the most part, however, they were simply a particularly nice part of home.

I have had dogs (not always retrievers; back then I didn’t know) with my cats so find nothing unusual about the two living together.

When Beauty’s predecessor died, my golden was so bereft that I felt it essential to get him a new companion as quickly as possible. Lots of free kittens in those days.

My first question was invariably have they been around dogs. Dogs, yes, and even goldens in Beauty’s case and, if I needed more, horses as well. Major and I picked one and home we came.

Beauty is aging well and fits in here indeed.

She slept with Major, adored him in a mutually happy relationship and accepted him as he did her. Part of me wonders to this day if she even realizes she is a cat and not a dog. Just a bit smaller. That’s all.

Minor was something else. And Quillow probably had never experienced a run-in with a nice feline. All live together now with acceptance . . . well, most of the time.

Beauty loves a long stroking when we greet each other before breakfast. (She has her own room and sleeps atop a table there appropriately covered with a towel featuring cats from the British Museum.) During the day she is outdoors, on one of the beds or in the basement. I think it’s much too dark down there for any living creature though will acknowledge it’s warmer (much) in the winter and stays at a comfortable seventy degrees all summer long. (Guess it’s not a bad place for people either.)

If I didn’t know about feral, I was equally ignorant of a long-haired cat and what that entailed: snarls.

Last year her hair became so entangled I took her to a groomer. She ferociously attacked so home she came uncombed. (I have warned her vets and actually saw her hooded when shaving became an utter requirement later.)

It still surprises me when I am able to hold and cuddle her well, maybe she’ll give me a minute’s worth. And I’m flummoxed when she will sit patiently and allow me to cut away at those annoying messes, generally worst under the chin where of course she can’t reach. I have no trouble with rewarding good behavior.

She must feel the same for Beauty has her own system of prizes purring is lovely and I don’t mind the licks. Her tongue is so sandpapery that I hear those as much as I feel. Only her little loves seem to inevitably lead to a bite. I know it isn’t ferocious and suspect that it’s her highest sign of love to me but I remain displeased with the dripping blood.

Vampire Cat she isn’t.

Susan Crossett has lived outside Cassadaga for more than 20 years. A lifetime of writing led to these columns as well as two novels. “Her Reason for Being” was published in 2008 with “Love in Three Acts” released in June. Copies are available at Papaya Arts on the Boardwalk in Dunkirk and the Cassadaga ShurFine. Information on all the Musings, the books and the author can be found at Susancrossett.com.

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