Family Daze
Pregnant cats find garage to be an ideal drop spot
By Debbie Farmer
I'm afraid I've noticed an alarming development. My house, which I've always thought of as an average two-story tract home at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, is really a halfway house for wayward cats. Now, while this may sound far-fetched to you, let me just say it sure explains a lot of things, such as why, for instance, when we moved in we had one cat, a few months later we had two, and now we are up to nine cats. NINE.
I must admit, if anyone had ever told me that I shouldn't keep the garage door open because a pregnant stray cat might wander in and gave birth to six kittens, I would've thought they were dipping into the cheap cooking wine. I've come to accept, however, that this is just the type of thing that happens to people who live in a House-For-Wayward-Cats.
But I still don't understand why this particular cat chose my garage. There are much cleaner and quieter places where it could've gone, like, say, back alleys and freeway underpasses. My husband said there's an old saying that cats choose their owners. This can only mean that 1) I possess profound inner qualities I didn't know I had or 2) I'm now the new owner of a cat that is a really, really bad judge of character.
Of course, there are other explanations, depending on whom you ask. My friend, Nicole, who's a religious person, thinks there is some deep and meaningful reason it chose me. My friend, Julie, thinks cats instinctively pick caring, responsible people to adopt them. But my theory is that I'm the only person on the block stupid enough to keep my garage door up.
Oh, it's not as if I don't like cats. I do. But, frankly, my relationship with them has always been the more superficial "here-kitty-kitty-nice-kitty"-type, rather than the "let-me-hold-your-paw -while-you-take-a- deep-breath-and-push"-kind. If you know what I mean.
Needless to say, watching the birth process was a priceless educational experience for my children. I could tell they were in awe of it by the way they greeted the birth of each kitten by shouting, "Ugh! Gross!" and covering their eyes.
One thing I've learned about owning nine cats is that your life suddenly becomes much quieter, because most people will avoid you. Now, don't get me wrong. At first you will be the most popular person in the neighborhood with people dropping by at all hours, just to see the kittens. But, after they reach adoptable age, you will be lucky if someone makes polite conversation. And, on top of that, no matter to whom you talk, they will always find a way to work in a reason why they can not adopt a kitten. Take, for example, the last phone conversation I had with my friend, Barbara, whom I've known for more than 20 years.
"Hi, Barb, it's me."
"Oh, hi. Say, did I ever tell you that I have a terrible allergy to cats?"
"Well, uh, no."
"Yeah, it's bad. I can't even so much as look at kitten without sneezing."
"Bu--."
"In fact, I feel one coming on now. Gotta go. Bye."
The other thing I've learned is that there are a lot of people out there who take cats seriously. Very seriously. Sort of like how some people take sports teams, or mutual funds. And these well-meaning people will give you more advice than you ever thought possible. They will tell you need to weigh each kitten five times a day on a postage scale, feed it warm milk by hand, out of a miniature bottle and various other little things that you'd never ever do, not even for your first-born child. But, don't let that fool you. When it comes time to give the kittens away, they too will become allergic to cats.
But, between you and me, I'm not going to let that stop me. No-siree. I'm not going to end up in my dotage like one of those ladies who lives alone with a bazillion cats. I'm going to take control of the local feline population and show them that my house isn't a harbor for any stray cat that wanders in. And, on top of that, I'm not going to rest until I find a good home for each kitten. All of them.
Well, OK, except for maybe the fluffy orange one. And possibly the gray one with the cute pink nose. And, oh yeah, the black-striped tabby. I mean, you just can't find colors like those anywhere, you know.
Debbie Farmer can be contacted at paradigmnews@familydaze.com.
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Saratoga, California Since 1955
