I am a Cat person

I am cat person.  Not that I don’t like dogs; they’re okay, except for the ones who feel the need to stick their nose in my crotch and the nasty one who bit my butt when I was a teenager out running.  Our neighborhood dogs –  Atticus, the famous hiking dog;  Bailey, the dog who reminds me of Disney’s Tigger; and Abigail, the one-eyed dog with a nice grandmother who lives in Florida (more on that some other day) are very sweet.  I adore my chiropractor’s beautiful Pearl and not to be forgotten our ex-neighbor, Tonka (RIP) who was a great dog despite the fact that he wore a Yankee’s neckband.  And, I must admit that Jack, Lianne’s dog, is starting to grow on me.  But I am a cat person.  My dad, the son of a veterinarian, was a cat person.

Here’s a photo of Grampa (Dr. Charles G. Hall) inside of his operating room at 228 Main Street in Malden, MA “fixing” my apparently very sick toy dog in the 1960’s.  The rear of the photo says that I paid a penny to have the dog operated on…

If you lived in the Linden area of Malden, Massachusetts and your cat disappeared one day, you can rest assured that your cat wasn’t hit by a car or mauled by a rabid racoon, as you might have imagined; he simply joined our family.  If a cat walked through our yard, my dad would assume it was a stray and would feed it day after day.  The cat wouldn’t be allowed inside the house, at least not initially.  But after a few months, there would be leg rubbing when dad arrived home, a cute meow, purring and a scratch at the door.  There might be a frost or a thunderstorm.

Once they were “in” and “named” they never left. At one point they outnumbered the humans – Mom, Dad, 4 kids, 11 cats.   Knowing what I know now, these weren’t feral cats, they must have all belonged to neighbors.  Only one original family “The Beasley’s” tried to claim their cat who we had named Tiger (almost 3 years after he “adopted” us). He went home with them. The next morning they let him outside; Tiger returned to us and never left.

I named my first kitten Daisy.  One of Grandpa’s clients had kittens.  He surprised me with one.  I was elated!  She was cute and playful and fun.  A few years later she had four kittens, we got to keep Squeeky the runt.

  Daisy & Squeeky circa 1970

Then there were the strays.  Tiger and Splat and Orphan.  Splat because my sister (who was 6 or 7) announced at dinner one evening that she hated cats because it meant we couldn’t have a dog, and she hoped that the cat ran across the street and “splat” as a car drove by.  I guess my parents thought she was funny, because the name stuck to the latest stray.

Fast forward a bunch of years.

I move into my own apartment at 22, two years later I adopt two kittens and name them Dewey and Sneakers.  They are adorable! Within hours of their arrival I can’t breathe.  My throat closes, my eyes become itchy then swell shut, the uncontrollable sneezing begins. I am allergic!  I visit the local allergist, “How can this be” I ask exasperatedly, “I lived with 11 cats ?!?!?”  He dispassionately responds that he does not know, but recommends shots 3 times a week for a year.  Is he nuts?  Two more cats are added to my dad’s collection.

Ten years ago my sister has twins, Makayla and Zack.  When they are 7 months I babysit while my sister heads off for “date night” with her husband.  The kids and I sit on the front stoop and suddenly Makayla begins to shake uncontrollably.  I think she is having a seizure.  Then she giggles and says what sounds like “kitty” (her first word), I am ready to call 911.  I instead turn and see a cat.  Relieved I scoop him up and bring him to my niece’s waiting arms. Within minutes I can’t breathe.  My throat closes, my eyes become itchy then swell shut, the uncontrollable sneezing begins. My sister’s date is cut short.

Eight years ago my soon to be husband John and I begin house hunting.  As we approached a house, the realtor warns, “They have a cat, I have been instructed not to let it out”.  Short story? Door opens, cat bolts.  Future husband and realtor chase cat for an hour.  They corner it.  It scratches the heck out of  future husband.  We depart and I am confined in a small car with a man who just held a cat.   Within minutes I can’t breathe.  My throat closes, my eyes become itchy then swell shut, the uncontrollable sneezing begins.  Houses with cat residents are crossed off our viewing list.

Fast forward to 2009.

We move to Jackson, an idyllic town, population 800, in the White Mountains of New Hampshire; majestic pines, subtle hills, and a wooden-covered bridge – a place where you  never stop feeling as though you are taking part in a “Lifetime Movie”.  We are invited to the Scheupps’s, our new neighbors, for dinner.  Their house is lovely.  Great mountain views, wine, pool table…..two cats.  Two cats with radar. Cats who instantly identify the visitor who is allergic to cats.  They attempt to jump on my lap.   No worries says my neighbor.  I am allergic too.  Frankie and Sammy are Devons, you will be fine.  And sure enough I was.