Scooter and Downyflake

After months of trying to find a way to become friends with Graymatter's constant interference and evil possession, er possessiveness, Scooter and Downyflake, both males, gave in to their evil grudgingly adopted sister Graymatter and turned their drooping tails on each other.

What until that moment had the chance of becoming Downyflake's first real friendship, died in the embers of defeat. The fighting started, and Graymattter, as if not satisfied with her victory, dumped fresh steaming mounds of puke everywhere an unsuspecting human might want barefoot in the night.

Repeated howls from angry humans busy cleaning her nasty discharge from between their toes. added to Graymatter's enjoyment and resolve. She knew she was close to having Scooter banned to the outdoors from which he came and upped the ante by spraying doorways where Scooter had passed before her.

Hell, I didn't know females could spray. Call me a female feline chauvinist if you must, but who knew?

The aromatic discharges grew and finally it was decision time. Unfortunately for Scooter, we'd made some kind of adoption commitment with Graymatter, so Scooter became the downstairs outdoor cat, which suited him fine thank you very much.

He now roams the yard, his territory and ignores both indoor cats. But occasionally, Downyflake lies in the window with that "what-if" gaze as he stares down as Scooter and wonders which of them got the better deal.

Scooter AKA Grumper

One cold December day, this little old man showed up in the backyard.

There was little doubt he'd been raised by a caring human, but for reasons we'll never know, he was abandoned. When I first approached him, thinking he was feral and would run away, he rolled onto his back and looked at me with a pathetic plea of desperation.

I declared I was not going to touch him, but would offer him food and water. Two days later, he did his usual morning routine of rolling onto his back and staring with need. Then he did something new. He walked over and rubbed my ankle. Without thought, I reached down and gave him a pat, and was lost to his charm.

It was a good day for Scooter. He had two serious infections on his face, one inside his upper lip. both had begun to poison him. A trip to the vet proved traumatic for all involved, but treatment saved his life.

We attempted to bring him into the house, but he didn't want to share and fought Graymatter tooth and nail until we knew he would always be an outdoor animal. He moved to the daylight basement and seemed fine with the transition.

However, he is old. He likes a morning walk too, which we do every day. His favorite time is spent on the handrail of the boardwalk, but getting up isn't as easy some days as others.

This leap was on a morning when he was determined to succeed without my lifting him. The previous two days his old hips bothered him too much to even attempt the jump. It is over 36 inches high, which is a lot for an oldster.

I waited, ready to help if needed, ready to give him a final boost, but cats being cats (so much like some humans I've known) stubborn and self-reliant is a way of life.

He succeeded without assistance and proceeded to scratch the railing to mark his achievement. Yes, I'm old, he seemed to say with every gesture, but that's a long ways from finished!

Cats, you gotta love 'em!

Leopold Wins Again

The white mouse Leopold I mentioned earlier had grown in popularity
with his main foe Saysheen. Only now Saysheen tried new tactics like perching atop the scratching post and staring up at Leopold's aquarium.

When boldness failed, since the mouse ignored her and continued to forage through his nest of straw and shredded newspaper, she would make a pitiful noise like a strangled mew.

Leopold glanced up, pretended he was interested in a scratch on the glass, and went back to whatever a mouse does inside its nest.

Poor Saysheen grew desperate. She acted as if she'd been weakened by hunger, and flicked her tongue out to demonstrate her coming demise should the mouse not comply with her needs.

However, Leopold was wise to her ploys and burrowed deeper into his nest, curled into a ball and slept for the rest of the day.

The Hunter and the Hunted

The attack was perfectly planned. Use the giant brown paper bag as a place to hide and watch for unsuspecting prey. Although the attacker was a bit wobbly on his five week old legs, he had the determination of an adult.

While patience could never be called a kitten virtue, this was a play time issue and he would persevere and maintain with the vigilance of an Army scout.

A peek around the corner proved little had changed, but he knew his foe would take the path of least resistance for a five week old kitten counterpart. Weak undeveloped legs kept his adversary on the floor so there would be no air assault.

Unfortunately, his prey had thought differently. A large wicker laundry basket lay between her and the large brown paper bag. A simple leap should get her to the top of the basket and from there, careful planning and skulking would carry the day

A long wobbly run was needed to build enough momentum to crest the rim of the basket, but AWK! She forgot about those quickly growing needle claws. One wobbly leg threw off her balance, a tumble and crash drove her into the side of the basket. Since the leap was planned its execution was inevitable as was the outcome. Blasted hangnail, she seemed to hiss as she rolled onto her back in helpless dispair.



Meanwhile, the attacker decided on another ploy, creep slowly around the back of the bag and head for the kitchen where fresh kitten chow awaited his victory celebration. He ate his fill and hers too, curled up by the radiator after making certain the coast was clear, and fell deep into a kitten nap.

The kitten who stayed . . . for a few months

We named him Marlowe when he strutted into the backyard and then quickly hid in tall beach grass like he knew we would never spot his blackness in the tan and green stalks. He could spy on our activities.

This guy was little too, filled with a kitten's energy and curiosity. He appeared newly abandoned, was clean and shiny. There was no possible way I could ignore that little face in the grass without wanting to get to meet him.

I hesitated and stopped. He boldly walked over and bumped my ankle with his head and began the marking routine. When I gave in about ten seconds later, I picked him up and listened to the loud engine sound of his purr. He weighed around two pounds and was quite hungry.

Since this guy was a kitten, we decided to introduce him to our housecats. Graymatter hated him the instant she smelled his scent. Downyflake hid under the bed and refused to come out into the light as if he'd suddenly turned into a vampire cat, without the ferocity or intent, or an ounce of fearlessness.

And it got worse from there. Marlowe was adorable in every way. We took him to the vet, got him fixed, and vaccinated. No difference to Graymatter. She still hated his scent. Downyflake had lost several ounces of fear fat by then, and Marlowe learned new ways to play that amused the hell out of his humans.

In the end, we found him a home with a terrific couple who'd lost their black cat six months earlier, and peace returned to out house along with a continuous onslaught of cat puke to eradicate Marlowe's scent and to let us know that Graymatter was still pissed off.

Newt's First Icy Snow

Newt was one of those cats who got along with other cats by ignoring them. What humans call the cold shoulder, Newt called the hot paw claws extended.

Everything provoked him except the humans who waited on him, feed him and opened the door when he needed to use the big cat box outside. That's right, Newt would not share one of the three indoor cat boxes, and really, who could blame him. There was often a line, and nobody bumped another cat out of the way to cut in, dump and run.

For Newt, life was good. We picked him up as a stray kitten about six or eight months old. He looked pathetic, acted pitiful and meowed helplessly. We fell for it hook line and sinker. Newt, I'm certain did whatever cats do to snicker.

As I said, he used the great cat box outdoors, but also loved being outside. I guess it was his only way of escaping the hissing and occasional howling of his extended family.

And then . . . along came winter. At first, he had no trouble with the cold. He ate a ton of food, grew bushels of fur and went about his business. And then . . . the first snow fell during the night. As soon I I was up, I grabbed the camera to take a few snow scene shots, opened the door and Newt ran outside. Suddenly, he stopped and glanced around as if lost. Knowing his favorite red bench had always proved safe ground, he ran for it leaped up and stopped dead with one foot . . . oops . . . paw in the air.

The poor cat stood that way for longer than could've been comfortable, gingerly put the fourth paw in the snow, turned and went inside the house to await spring.

The Saga of Leopold and Saysheen

Leopold was a white mouse. A favorite pet for some, and entertainment for others.

He was rarely out of his screen covered glass aquarium. Primarily due to his fleet-footed maneuverability. Once on the move, he was gone. In a large house, that's a problem. Especially a large house with, well 18 cats in residence. Of course you might think he quickly became lunch, or a midnight snack. Not true. Leopold knew how to hide better than most and was never trapped or caught. He didn't lose as much as a whisker, or a tail hair (okay, he didn't have tail hair).

However, he had a secret admirer. A sealpoint Siamese kitten named Saysheen. She would perch on the tabletop or chair back and watch Leopold make his rounds. Saysheen had patience. more than most cats, perhaps because she was a kitten and had yet to learn that some opportunities don't wait for conclusion.

Oh she would point with a paw, and her radar ears would rotate to detect the tiniest sound, but that was all. She didn't pounce.

After Leopold had exhausted himself, a task that require no more than fifteen minutes, he would be returned to the safety of his home, the screen covered glass aquarium.

His admirer, Saysheen was quick to leap on top of the screen and continue her studies. I felt certain she wanted Leopold to look up and acknowledge her beauty, or just her presence.

He did not. Yet she would stare without blinking, attempting to mesmerize him with brainwaves of temptation. Cat telepathy, or her imposing presence. Nope, he never looked up, didn't act as if she existed in his world view.

As a last resort, the final attempt for the day, she would wait until he was facing a particular side of his home and quickly move her head so Leopold couldn't possibly miss her.

Leopold gave her the cold shoulder every time. Without a glance in her direction, he casually turned away to face another direction and resume his search for the best piece of mouse food in his dish, or to watch the drop of water at the end of the water tube spark the setting sun.

Forlorn, but not without fortitude and determination, Saysheen persisted. She stared and glared, flicked her tail rapidly, rubbed her whiskers against the glass, her claws across the screen top, and Leopold went on as if he were alone in the world.

Alexandria, VA Alley Cat

When I saw this little guy on a self-guided walking tour of Alexandria, VA, I thought he was a red fox, well not really.

He didn't look too threatening. Curious maybe, ready to accept a treat should one fall his way.

The fluffiness of his tail might have been a warning, or just the result of a bad hair day. God knows we all have enough of those.

Since I tend to get along with cats better than other species, I decided to approach without caution.

The tail grew, the ears moved to flatten against his skull, and he gave a weak little hiss that sounded like a bicycle tire leaking . . . slowly.

I backed away as he edged nervously into his alley, and we parted less than friends. Sigh!

A Moment's Respite

I don't know how she did it. Saysheen attempted to befriend whiner Rok Poi and actually got the little thing to stop howling.

Perhaps it was shared Siamese genes, superficial at best. Or who knows, maybe the squealer wore herself out and passed out to provide the house with some feline mercy.

As you might imagine, the quiet did not last long. No more than a catnap's time.

And yes I shot the picture without flash in the hope that this alleged new friendship might hold significant meaning. Fat chance!

The Best of Times, the Worst of Times

Yes, those are Graymatter's eyes glowing in the distance. See below. Downyflake is reconsidering his plan to go through that passage.

It was August, 2001. My dear wacky little shelter cat, Alpo, had died a month before. On an out-of-town trip we stopped in a pet store on impulse and found an irresistible little orange ball of anxiety who has come to be called "Downyflake". He's downy, and he's rather a flake. .

But the idea was to have at least 2 cats. So back home we called the local cat rescue, and they steered us to a litter of foundlings who were being nursed to adoptable age at a local vet.
.

I approached the cage with my hand out. A scrawny little thing reached through the bars with both front paws, grabbed my hand, pulled it up against the cage and began to lick it. "I think we have a cat," said Larry.
.

At home that night, this 2-pound shrimp slept against my side and I lay awake all night afraid I would drop off too deeply, roll over, and crush those tiny toothpick bones. But that was the last night she slept through. Thus began a wild ride. Before 48 hours were up, poor Downy, who'd hoped for a friend, had accepted that fact that she's the household Alpha. The unusually high quantity of gray matter she has became clear. She is The Boss Of Us All.

For a month she never stopped moving. It was like throwing a Superball in the shower stall. She ran, jumped, climbed, and ran some more with brief breaks for food and naps.

Until 9/11. By that time, she was maybe up to 3 pounds. That day I sat glued to the TV and she never left my side. Whatever energy drove her, she corraled it for that day only. If I hadn't completely fallen when she grabbed me through the cage bars, I did now.
Graymatter embodies the extreme in everything. She's possessive almost beyond endurance. She's demanding and loving. And she earns the name The Bitchlet. If she doesn't get her way she punishes. She thinks that this lovely velvety throw is there to Make Her Happy, which is one of the few occasions on which we've fooled her. It's there because she is inclined to take out her displeasure on the furniture.

There was no sign of this behavior for 4 years. See, we had a plan. Cats laugh when you make a plan. The idea was to adopt a cat every 5 years or so and always have 3 --maybe 4. Never again did I want to confront the immense hole that losing Alpo left in the house or my heart. No cat can replace another. They're as different as the planets. I simply hated the emptiness. .

Marlowe appeared in the yard, half-grown as well as near-starved. The abandoned pet problem is huge here in this transient resort area. We got him fixed and immunized, brought him in, and tried to integrate him into the household. It was a mistake. He was too aggressive. .

For awhile I thought we had literally broken Graymatter's heart by inflicting this on her. I still think we may have broken her mind to a degree. The next attempt to adopt a cat, Scooter, should have worked, but she'd been too terrorized by Marlowe. Or maybe she's really a cat-hating cat. We'll never know if we could have done something to make additional adoptions possible. It's the road not taken.

The punitive behavior began. We tried keeping Scooter in his own part of the house. She peed on the door. Nobody was happy, and after the lengthy period he'd apparently spent outside before adopting us, he was ready to move back out. He now divides his time between the garage and the great outdoors.

Graymatter, meanwhile, had discovered her power. By destructive behavior, she drove Scooter out. It's now her modus operandi. Closed door that she wants to have open? Undesireable cat treat? Someone ran a vacuum cleaner?! Worst of all, houseguests, who by their very existence interfere with her expected lifestyle? Then it's time to express herself with what the cat books call "improper elimination." It can be a sign of a physical problem, especially if it's a new or unusual behavior. But I'm happy to say she's quite healthy. Physically, if not emotionally. She thinks it worked on Scooter and that it will work to get anything else changed that she wants changed.

St. Michael himself

can't help you now!

Once "she'd" eliminated Scooter, she sensed a withdrawal of trust on our part. It's well-founded. I love her like a Trill loves her Symbiont but trust is another matter. She needs love. They all do but her need is high. She gets it, but she gets watched. When we catch her we make sure there's no genuine threat, or legitimate offense, to her, and then punish her with exile from the family. It might be working. There hasn't been an incident in some time. Knock wood.

Meanwhile she isn't called Graymatter for nothing. She's out to charm the crap out of us by aggressive cuteness. Downy won't play. She plays. She chases napkin balls and does Swat The Shadow.

And often I find her looking down on me from the top of my desk, just keeping an eye on her Possession.

She's endearing. She's infuriating. She sleeps between my shoulder blades. Each day is an adventure.

Take That You Brute!

Damien's son had a wild streak he enjoyed exploiting when the rest of the kittens napped or were otherwise occupied.

This time it backfired! He got distracted by the kitten to the rear center of the photo. His unnamed sibling sprung from behind a paper bag and lashed into him. POW, POW.

All the little guy could do was wince and hope it would be over soon so he could exact revenge.

Stabla the Shadow Cat for Friday the 13th

Stalba, one of Saysheen's kittens grew into a solitary individual.

He did not like sharing food with 17 cats and kittens. He would wait until the last of them walked away from the feeding trough and collect whatever remained.

He was a good quiet companion for anyone who played by his rules. No ruffling fur, no scratching the belly at any time, no brushing.

His favorite sleeping berth was just outside the bedroom door. If you think he's difficult to see in this photo, imagine its midnight. Which reminds me of another rule: no stepping on my tail at any time!

Bertrude's Big Day

After struggling to gain his balance, falling again and again, little Bert balanced his weight just right. When he turned his head to get his mother Gertrude's attention over he went.

He was persistent up to a point. The point of time to eat. Afterall, mom was a foreleg's distance from his hungry self. Time out was in order and a long sip of mother's milk.

After a warm nap, he tried again and wobbled across the basket. Applause was in order, but Gertrude and his siblings slept through the event.

Tigger Strikes A Blow

Okay, maybe he didn't know what that tiny crawling insect was or what it should've been doing. He knew it needed to be stopped and he was the kitten who was up to the task.

Well, almost. He managed to bare his tiny needle claws, spread his minuscule toes apart, then the poor misguided little guy got himself distracted.

Two seconds passed, and when he looked back, the darn insect had blended into the garden and disappeared. But not to worry, he was Tigger after all. He squatted like you see him in the photo and sprang up and into the garden. Alas, the insect escaped his wrath despite several attempts to turn the tide of battle.

Midnight in the Sunlight of Vermont

Midnight was my Aunt Helen Wilson's cat. He was quite old when this photo was shot, and occasionally needed to be carried.

He was solid black, and very spoiled, enjoyed whatever location provided the best sun, and spread himself out to warm up.

I don't recall him playing, but do know he had quite the appetite, as you might guess from the picture.

Daisy of East Calais, Vermont

I seem to meet cats everywhere I go. While visiting family in Vermont, this beautiful calico wandered from the neighbor's house to investigate our arrival.

As you can see from her picture, her markings look somewhat scrambled. However, she was not.

Her demands for attention were gladly met by all, especially our youngest daughter Aseia. Whenever she was in the yard, Daisy bounded over for a new adventure, which Aseia was only too happy to provide.

Graymatter

To me the stare is her signature. At the time, judging by the slight tilt to her lip, left side, which I considered to be a sneer, she wasn't happy about having her picture taken.

Perhaps she believed I was attempting to capture her soul, or her kitten essence, whatever. With the tail straight out behind her, it's difficult to tell whether she wanted to run, or was expecting a treat to compensate for the abuse.

With cats, and especially with Graymatter, it's all about the treats. She gets downright ferocious when I toss her one, attacks it as if it's alive, boots it around and pounces on it to devour the little beastie before it might escape her assault.

Sweet Miss Tilly Comes to Visit

What a wonderful cat! Miss Tilly, whose real name is Camille, is gentle and loving, except when the opportunity arises to harass Graymatter by chasing her under the nearest bed (more on Graymatter here and elsewhere later).

Since she is a tuxedo cat, kind of, I started calling her Miss Tilly, which she seemed to like. Of course the liberal application of treats didn't hurt the effort.

Our oldest daughter Clarissa is Miss Tilly's human. They spent some time with us earlier this year. Miss Tilly had never been able to access a screened-in porch before the visit. Once familiar with all the porch had to offer, she wanted to live on it, and did while her human was out.

Downyflake the Basket Cat

We purchased the basket at a local flea market. The intended purpose was to store magazines and make the entire stack portable.

The second day the basket sat alongside the reading chair, an occupant moved in. A 16 pound orange Maine Coon Cat (according to Anne McCaffrey) named Downyflake.

"Squatter's Right," his look said. "You did buy this for me, didn't you?"

The basket has never held a single magazine even after basket cat abandoned the project for a small white gift box that once held a nice sweater.

Feeding Time - First Shift

Yes, feeding 18 cats was a challenge. At first we used large bowls.
Each time another cat approached, he or she would press between two others without repercussions.

However, once all the kittens reached adulthood, bowls were no longer effective. They were replaced by long stainless steel trays, cast-offs from a cafeteria serving line.

The outcome was interesting. When a cat approached to get some food, he or she went to the end and bumped everyone over a space. This of course shoved some innocent off the far end.

In time, the displaced cat went to the other end and bumped his or her way back into the food chain. And on and on . . .

Is it really a boy?

Poor Damien. One morning he suddenly decided to check the gender of the kitten that followed him everywhere when not playing kitten wrestling with his siblings.

Apparently he like many humans, couldn't tell without a close visual examination.

If the two dots are close together its a girl, right?

These dots look far apart, so that makes it a boy. And a boy who smells like, phew, he needs better hygiene, but he doesn't smell like a threat . . . yet!

If I stare at it long enough . . .

I wasn't certain what she discovered that absorbed her so throughly.
Perhaps it was a fly, a spider, a stray thought, or a ray of sun.

Ka-Ko liked that window sill, spent hours there with the sun burning her fur, but this time she grew distracted by, well nothing really.

Could it be a daydream? Do cats daydream? Maybe it was an early kittenhood memory that paralyzed her for a few cat moments while she pondered the effects of life with 17 other cats.

Down from the Tree and the Hunt goes on

This was one agile little kitten, as well as quite fearless. Up the tree and back down with no hesitation.

Here he is stalking the wild I don't know what. Maybe it was an insect like an ant, or small beetle.

Whatever, he stalked it across the yard, cornered the invisible creature where bricks lined the gardens, and turned away. Mission accomplished.

Hands on the Fur, Pal

Lady Sonya enjoyed getting brushed. She would stand patiently, odd for any cat, I know, and allow it for the equivalent of one cat hour, or about five human minutes.

Through the entire brushing, she would stare, or glare at anyone human or cat, who dared interrupt any part of the ritual.

Although, I often attempted to distract her with her favorite string, or by pointing out that she had a black mustache, well you can see the result . . . don't think so, she seemed to say.

Sonya in Formal Attire

Sonya was the lady of the house. She walked with her head up, tail up and never confronted anyone, or any other cat or kitten except when they made their first foray onto her personal chair.

She always insisted that she wear a red velvet bow around her neck.

If I forgot to put it on in the morning -- she wasn't allowed to wear it at night -- she would be persistent.

Her eyes would met mine with one of those feline glares that said, I had so hoped you'd be more intelligent than this, but perhaps I was wrong about you, human.

Then she would find the ribbon, drag it off the table and present it to me. I was quick to comply. It would never do to seem too ignorant.

Last One Out is a . . .

Forget that he couldn't figure out that all he needed to do was jump and freedom was his. Forget that if he applied his tiny claws to the side of the box, he could pull himself free.

Remember this only. He was so blasted cute that no matter what he did it was too much to bear without smiling and saying, well forget that. I'm not about to embarrass myself on his behalf.

Yes, I helped him out, watched him walk away with his tall erect, turn around and jump back into the box!

Too Many Kittens, Too Few Boxes

What do you do with five kittens on a rainy day? Give them a box to play in and stand back with the camera ready for some fun photos.

Right!

Let's try that again, kids, er kittens. This time let's not all run to the back of the box at the same time and try to scratch that annoying sliver of tape dangling from the inner flap.

No, not that . . . Oh, well, take the photo of them trapped in the box after it stands up and they all look at you with pleading eyes. Oh please let us out of here. Well, maybe not just yet.

If You Don't Mind!

Poor Sonya. just when she thought she was finally alone and far from the clutter of 17 sisters and brothers, there I was camera ready.

Well, to be perfectly honest, at the time I had no idea what she was doing. I was innocently snapping photos of my favorite subjects, 18 cats playing outdoors.

Afterwards, I was required to extend several apologies in the form of tummy rubs, which she enjoyed unlike most others of her kind, favorite treats, and a 5 minute session (she had a limited attention span, but don't they all) with her favorite string, red ribbon attached.

Tigger - "May I be of assistance?"

Never place the telephone book where the sun will shine on it. Tigger, although quite small at the time, decided the book was his favorite place to recline and warm up.

When I needed the phone directory, he would lift his little head as if the task made him weary, and then ignore me.


Once satisfied that I would not disturb him again, he lowered his small self into a comfortable position and then ignored my pleas, my bribes and the sound of his favorite string being dangled in
front of him.

He stayed there until he was almost too hot to touch. Kittens!

Look Out Below

Acorns were a lot of fun to play with. Damien's son liked to boot them from the top of a stack of bricks (okay a human was required to place them there over and over and over).

Occasionally, he would aim (not intentionally, of course (heh-heh)) at one of his siblings and if he got lucky bop them on the head.

He missed this time, but everybody was transfixed by the small beetle that rode the acorn down.

A Forlorn Afternoon

This little guy never seemed to be happy about his surroundings.
Here he stands at the edge of the front stoop peering down at the rest of his clan of kittens. He didn't venture a step farther.

Unfortunately, he was never named since he too was a member of the to-go group. Seems the landlord thought 18 cats were several too many.

Giving up one was difficult, but hopefully this sad boy was happier in his new home.

Sonya and Saysheen Make Nice

Meanwhile, Sonya had finally accepted Saysheen as a regular user of her chair. This opened the way for several other girls to join them for grooming and a warm spot to gather on a cold December day in New York.

Yes, that is Sonya licking Saysheen's head while everyone else ignored them and slept away the afternoon.

Gertrude and Bertrude Again

Finally having cleaned poor little Bert's birth sac away so he could
move and stuff, Gertrude put her paws protectively over his fragile
body and glared as if to say, "Mine! And don't you forget that, human."

I knew it was the start of something special, which was when the name Bertrude popped into my head.

Now, look to the left, son.

Gerrtie, short for Gertrude, enjoyed spending time with her first born, Bertrude, or Bert.

Often, I'd find them together while she taught him the proper etiquette for an indoor/outdoor cat's survival.

On this particular afternoon, she and her son spent a good two hours on the window ledge watching the birds busy in the small fruit orchard in the backyard.

I think Bert was more interested in the sunshine than the birds, but his mother never complained.

Is that what it's for?

Kittens are full of mischief as we all know. These two, one of which is Gerttie and Damien's son, liked to play on a brown paper bag.

The bag would always be offered with a wide gapping mouth for them to crawl into. They never did. When it was paper bag time, they jumped on it and flattened it.

But every once in a while, one of the adult cats would come by and look at them in wonder. This time, I caught them staring at their mother as if she was informing them of what they should do with a brown paper bag (let's face it, cats are telepathic).

Damien, if you look to the upper right, stalked by as if he knew she was wasting her time. Sure enough, as soon as Gerttie left the room, they went back to wrestling on top of the flattened bag.

Lady & Laddie - the saga of the twins

Lady and her twin brother Laddie lived at the Strassenberg house in Port Jefferson, New York. Both were pure white, lost in the snow type white with blue eyes, medium length soft silky fur.

Laddie, sitting on the left, was the silent guardian who always looked after his sister. They would spend hours sitting on the window ledge watching activities outside.

And then there was Lady. She was the house gossip. She was a cat who never met another cat she could ignore, or a person she could ignore. In fact, I don't think Lady saw anything she didn't want to talk about or to.

And talk she did. Gossip, complain, squawk, chat about the temperature inside and out, the bird who dared get too close to the glass, whatever! With an occasional screech tossed in for good measure

This is her on an ordinary day. The only time she wasn't busy chatting was when she slept.

And poor Laddie, he never could get a word in edgewise or any
other-wise. He was indeed the silent sentinel.

Perhaps Laddie waited until she slept, crept out through the cat
door and talked with one of the other cats where Lady wouldn't
hear him.

Or maybe he howled at the moon when no one was around to hear
him complain that his ears hurt.