First, some background. At the most, we had thirteen cats. Yes, all at once. At this writing (10 November 2003) we have eleven. (10 April 2004: and then there were ten...) No, we're not 'cat collectors'. Yes, they've all had their shots and get routine medical care. No, there's not a flea in the apartment (better not be with what I spend on Advantage). We just have had the interesting fortune to accumulate felines over the past seventeen years. The only real problem I face with this gang is guilt; I only have two hands and all eleven deserve lots of petting. So I spend a lot of raw time on them. They seem to appreciate it.
Nine. July 2007. You'd be surprised how having 'only' nine cats can feel like the house is empty. We moved in with ten - Keeton had the chance to scent the house before the others moved in, he enjoyed the yard and the windows. We told him we bought him, and the others, a house. We weren't really joking. They may access all windows, even the one over the kitchen counter. In summer, the sliding door is open for them. The yard is theirs to explore on leashes. They don't need to hide when someone comes to the door. It's their house, they can go anywhere and defend it at will.
Eight. There's another cat-sized hole in our lives. The other cats were ready to lose Gray before we were. Sinister said goodbye specifically. We could learn much about Zen acceptance from our feline friends.
Seven. I always said Siobha would keep going until she stopped. Last night she was fine, this morning she's gone. This time it was Archie who suffers the loss so badly; he was there with her when she died.
And eight again. On February 26, 2008, we visited friends and saw a lovely gray cat on the back porch, scratching at the sliding door to get in. On February 28th I went over with a carrier and picked him up to join the chaos that is our home. He's fluffy and sweet and unphased by the multitude of feline roommates. And he's got enough fur he had a girl's name for awhile, but now Octavius is tagged with a moniker that's all male. He also apparently likes being called 'Big O'.

Keeeton is our eldest and absolute uncontested family patriarch. He was born in late summer 1987 in SE Portland to a couple of the neighborhood strays. In adolescence he elected to move in with us and has remained ever since. Sam and I have been together just about two months longer than Keeeton has been with us. He's a true patriarch and if it weren't for him things would never go as smoothly as they do in this place. He shares his love with all the other cats and provides a surrogate parenthood whenever needed as well as teaching the rules of the house to everyone. He's pretty much perfect. His full name is "Ronmonanoff Puffball Keeeton Rasputin Russell inkey$ Dipshit-stay-outta-the-kitchen". Came to us with the first three and collected the rest through his own actions. He insists on the drawn-out long e so I just gave up and started spelling it with the triple. When he gets into particular trouble he'll wait until I recite the whole name before desisting. He has bonded more strongly with Sam than with me and can frequently be seen critiquing Sam's designs or assisting with his typing.
After a bout with kidney failure and anemia (a result of the kidney failure), Keeeton decided that his time on this earth had been long and fulfilling, and he did what I'd always asked him to do. He said he was tired and it was time. Just after 2am on 21 October 2004, Keeeton slipped away in Sam's arms with me holding his head and a fine veterinarian from Southeast Animal Hospital assuring that his passage would be easy and comfortable. There will never be another Keeeton. We shall miss him forever.

Siobha (pronounced SHEE-va) is about twelve. She belonged to some reprehensible neighbors we once had so I liberated her. It took her years before she'd let herself be held and more years before she'd sleep with us. Now I have to shove her aside to get out of bed. She is a living testament to the triumph of loving gentleness. She likes to get into and under things. She's a tan, gray and black tabby with white face, chest and feet and her eyes are delicate green. She is extremely feminine, but not at all delicate. She's a shadow chaser and is the reason I bought a laser pointer. There is one cat food for Siobha, Alley Cat. She absolutely refuses any other brand, moist or dry. The other things she eats are spaetzle, tomatoes, and chicken bits. Sometimes she'll drink the water from tuna, but she has no interest in the flesh. Nevertheless, whenever I'm cooking she is underfoot whining for me to drop something for her, which she usually ignores. But she's way too cute to get annoyed at for any length of time and she knows it. Very recently she's taken to sleeping by my pillow and making little sharp but contented "mrow" sounds when I touch her.
Since we moved to our house, Siobha has blossomed as a bed cat. Climbing up on whomever is available she settles in and meows little crackly, repeated meows with which she will open a dialogue with us. It's 2007, she's probably 14 or 15 and the most active cat in the house. Running, jumping, chasing. If it's happening, it's probably Siobha. She also decided sometime in the last year that Friskies dry food is acceptable to her palate. Such a princess.
19 February 2008. It's just not fair. She was vibrant, active, demanding. Queen of the silent meow and not afraid to use it. Siobha would engage you in conversation where all either party was actually doing was opening and closing their mouth. She knew what was being said, you didn't have to. This morning she slept atop my hip and I awoke with my hand on her. She shifted a little and went back to sleep. A few hours later she was sick in the hall - not all that unusual in and of itself but this one sounded wrong and I woke up immediately - then got into the bedroom and fell over. Two more breaths and that was it. I haven't a clue what happened, but the last thing she felt was my hand on her side and the last thing she heard was me saying her name and then she was gone. Her collar rests with Keeeton's and there is this huge hole in my space right now. She was healthy to all appearances and seemed like she would go on forever. Siobha was 16 and didn't know it. Perhaps it is proper that she simply kept going until she stopped.
I've figured it out. Heart attack. That was kind. Siobha was active up to her final night and she knew she should be active. She'd start at the bottom of the stairs with you, race you up, continue to the top of the cat tree up there, and stare down with a 'well, what are you waiting for?' look on her face. If ever there was a cat who would have known that she was slowing down, that she used to be able to do things she no longer could, it would have been Siobha. She would have gone into depression and it would have broken my heart. Yes, it is most appropriate that she was able to keep going to the end.

Boots joined us in 1997 at the tender age of 16 months. An acquaintance called me at ten one night and said if I didn't come and get her he'd take her to the Humane Society in the morning. I went and got her. Three weeks later I discovered why he was so hot on ditching her; she was pregnant. She gave us four of the cutest kittens I've ever seen, three of whom are still with us. She's athletic, having leaped six feet straight up the doorjamb after a moth (she caught it) the night before delivering her babies. She used to take half-dead moths into the nursery box to show her little ones how to hunt. It worked, as the three with us are excellent hunters and when the rest of the building is having an insect invasion, I never have anything to worry about. The picture is of her at about eight weeks pregnant. She carried high and while coming toward you was only a bit bulgy. Then she'd sit down and turn into an isocoles triangle. Her kittens were born on Yom Kippur, 1997, so I named them the first four letters of the Hebrew alphabet. Boots was the perfect mother, nursed her daughter for two years. It didn't do either of them any harm that I could tell. She's the one that picks up toys and wanders around the house carring them and crooning. There's this green thing that a sort of tapered tube, about seven inches long, cotton stuffed, and bright green. We've taken to calling it the 'pickle'. At any hour of the day or night you might hear Boots crooning (Sam calls it the 'pickle song') and within a minute she'll come into the room with you carrying that stupid green toy. She then drops it and comes over for pets. I'm glad she's a completely indoor cat because she brings fur mice and other toys into the bedroom and arranges them on the floor by the bed, in the bedroom doorway, or sometimes even on the covers while I'm asleep. I shudder to think what it would be like if they were real mice!
The house has all hardwood floors. I have a laser pointer. Boots will follow the red dot in endless circles at top speed until she's so dizzy she can't stand up without wobbling. We do this often.

Bet is the eldest of Boots' children that we kept. He is Keeeton's Heir Apparent in the top cat spot, paw-picked for the job. He's gorgeous and knows it and shows off to people on a regular basis. He's still learning to temper justice with mercy, but he's smart enough to figure out how Keeeton does it. His name is actually spelled "Beth", but the h is silent and I got sick of explaining that to people so dropped it from normal use. His whiskers are perpetually fanned in a kitty smile unless he's been yelled at or gotten into a tussle with his sister. Definitely our happiest cat. He got his mother's white paws and chest, and a lopsided facial marking that adds to his general good looks. He is Sam's cat through and through and when he hears the Beetle come into the parking lot he begins to meow and runs for the scratching tree near the front door where he rears up on his hind legs and dances until Sam comes in. I only saw the whole show the other morning when Bet thought I was asleep. Although the avowed Number Two and a handsome and confident feline, Bet has few hangups about losing dignity when the cause is right. Just don't turn him over on his back.
After Keeeton died, Bet moved deeper and deeper into the position of being Sam's cat, starting the week Sam had home infusion therapy and he insisted on attending every session from the train-the-wife with the visiting nurse to the final day when the PICC line was removed. Now, two years later, he has thoroughly become Sam's primary cat and is learning how to be the top feline in the house. Not Number One, though. After having experienced Keeeton, we retired his number.
Even more now than before, Bet has discovered what is expected in his role as senior cat. It's summer 2007 and shortly after we lost Gray. Bet can be found licking the occasional ear and head-butting his housemates in acts of affection. He's also learned one of Keeeton's valuable skills, the transfer of affection. There simply aren't enough humans here to go around, and sometimes we need help. Keeeton knew this and regularly saw to cleaning ears, licking heads, and sleeping in nests with the other cats. I had no time for Archie the other day; my hands were full and I was busy. And Archie needed attention. I said, "Later, please," with the usual guilt.Bet came into the room, apparently he'd heard, and spent a minute licking Archie behind the ears and showing him attention. I was extremely grateful for the help and gave both of them time when I could.

Gimel is the second of Boots' litter, and the only female. She was the same size as her siblings for the first three months, then remained dainty while the males got rangy. She is the cutest, clingiest, and meanest of our cats. She'll whallop one of her brothers while he's asleep just because she can, and is the first to start a fight with newcomers. Both my Manxes, twice or more her size, are terrified of her. She loves to sleep under the covers behind my knees and lick any human's nose that gets in reach. The white chin makes her look wistful, but don't be fooled. She is actally an extremely cunning and sly little feline. She's maybe 6.5 pounds. Gimel taught herself to retrieve; her favourite toys are sparkly balls. You'll hear her frantically meowing and look down and she's dropped one on or by your foot and is insisting that you throw it for her. Hard experience has taught me to make sure she's not on my lap when I throw it, for she launches with all claws out for traction. She'll play fetch for a good half hour before she's through, which she indicates by simply never coming back with the ball.
She'll be eleven this year, along with her brothers. She's still the same size. And she loves stairs. You can hear her descending them at a dead run, as though her body were moving faster than her paws. Her favorite toys are these little plastic rigs and she'll knock one down the steps, chase it, take it back up, then repeat the entire process.

Daleth (the h is silent) is the youngest of Boots' kittens, but is a touch larger than Bet. He's black all over except for the occasional white whisker. He's not too bright, and sometimes wakes up and doesn't know where he is or who anyone around him is, cat or human, and hisses at everything. But he's thoroughly loving and spends much of his time in my lap or under my arm in bed, and has the most delightful "mrowr" in the world. He's also one of the most likely cats to tumble stacks of books, tip boxes over, or disappear into the open laundry hamper then pop his head up with a "what happened?!" expression. He also hates hot summers as much as I do, and heads for cooler sleeping spots whenever possible. Porcelain is cool, and he doesn't even care about the drips.
I've always had a soft spot for all black cats, but when we thought we weren't keeping the kittens I tried very hard to not bond with Daleth. As soon as I knew he was staying, I let go, but it took moving into the house for Daleth himself to become aware of the fact he has special priveledges to my lap. Now he 'helps' me do the NYT crossword by sitting on it, sitting between it and me, and trying to chew the barrel of my pen while I'm filling in the squares. Speaking of filling in, he's lost a bit of that pointed chin, but isn't precisely overweight. Just plush with no problem tearing up vertical surfaces at warp speed.
With age has come dignity, and confidence. He's no smarter and still wakes up hissing, but has taken to sleeping between our pillows at night (formernly known as the 'Molly Spot' after her habit of being there) and will not co-occupy the bed with Dexter (of whom he is not at all fond). And he's more my cat now than ever, occasionally asserting his sovereignity of my lap.
For an extreme close-up of this guy, click this.

Molly came to us from my good friend Tom, whose family had owned her previously. They moved out of state and there was no sign of her, so Tom got a no pets apartment. We went back to check the empty house and there she was, looking into the empty back window with a wistful expression. She'd been a primarily outdoor cat and judging from her weight loss and slight dehydration had probably gotten locked in a barn or shed for a couple of weeks. The family told me there was no way I could take an outdoor farm cat and turn her into a totally indoor cat with multiple feline roommates. Molly had another opinion. She's not so much as ventured to the doorjamb since she got here and seems delighted with soft sleeping spaces, readily available food, water, and clean litterbox, and has placed herself into the cat heirarchy firmly. Tom's family got her from the pet shelter so nobody's too sure how old she is, but I figure between eight and eleven. She's got a touch of arthritis, but otherwise is going strong.
7 April 2004: Three weeks ago Molly began showing signs of kidney failure. Instead of being chronic, which was the veterinarian's first guess, it was severe. In her last three weeks with us she chose not to fight it and would not eat; however she consumed plenty of water. She had no pain. Last night she managed the trip from the bedroom into the living room to sit in Sam's lap in the evening. She hadn't been mobile at all for the previous week. We knew she was saying goodbye. This afternoon we gave her a dignified end in my arms with Sam rubbing her favourite place under her chin. We'll miss her terribly.

Gray appeared on our front doorstep in 1997 and convinced me to let her in for a meal. She came and went for a couple of weeks but when the ice storm hit I decided she needed to stay in. Her unimaginative name comes from the fact she was never meant to remain, but I never found her a suitable home, so it stuck. She likes it. The next New Years Eve (1998) she sneaked out one morning and disappeared for three days in 20-degree temperatures. When she came home she proved to be pregnant, to my utter consternation as she'd disappeared the day after I'd made her spaying appointment. I'm a softie, so we let her have the kittens. Four of them, two Manx males and two tailed females. She's got a tail so it's pretty obvious what the father was. The females were called Chief and Base (heraldic terms) and went to an excellent home with a herald friend of mine, AEthelfrith, who renamed them Hermia and Hestia. He carpeted his loft bed for them. Gray wasn't the eager mother Boots was, but she did right by her kids. In 2000 she required extensive dental work (seven extractions) and now that it no longer hurts to eat is fighting a war with obesity. And losing. So she and I are kindred spirits.
Apparently Gray has diabetes. So do I. Her weight is under control but there's someting odd about the way she walks - she's gone flat-footed. It hasn't slowed her down any, and in fact in the last year she's really come into her own, sleeping wherever she wants, clambering around bed or couch at will, and smacking down insolent younger felines who dare to reach for her food. She's also discovered the joys of chasing the end of a shoestring and when she catches it, rolling over onto her back to chew on it. And she still cleans Sinister's ears whenver she thinks he needs it.

That entry was a couple of years ago. We got her diabetes under control and her weight stayed down, though she was constantly underfoot in the kitchen, asking prettily for snacks. Often, she got them. She thrived in the house, taking the space in front of the sliding glass doors as her territory and getting on futon or bed at will, knowing that she had the right to be anywhere she wanted to be. Even with her odd walk, the stairs were no problem and she was up and down them regularly. She was confident and happy. And then she dropped two pounds in a month and I started watching her carefully, knowing it was the end. She'd never been thoroughly healthy and age and ills came on quick. On June 27th 2007 she couldn't get comfortable and was obviously distressed. I knew it was time and we went to the emergency veterinarian just after midnight. I don't think she was still with us when they administered the shot, but I was holding her against my chest. Honestly, she had several years of borrowed time. But it still felt like she should have had more.

Sinister is the eldest of Gray's kittens. He's the silver tabby with white paws. He was a headfirst birth and looked white before being delivered fully. Manx kittens have an awful time learning how to walk without a tail, and since he's got a narrower gauge than his brother he spent much of his babyhood with his front paws going east and his rear paws going west. He's gotten over it, though, and is now a champion climber and leaper. He used to torture his sisters' tails (tailless kittens do that to tailed siblings and if there are more tailless than tailed kittens in the litter you have to seperate them or the tailed kittens get harrassed into psychosis - as we had an even number I just watched them carefully) mercilessly then turn and flick his nubbin with a "whatcha gonna do about it?" look. Chief took him up on it once and bit his rear so hard he had trouble sitting for a couple of hours. It didn't teach him a thing. Sinister, of course, is another heraldic term (left side), but I do get tired of explaning it to laymen. "He's not evil, he's Sinister!" He's as loyal as any dog I've had and usually can be found at my feet or by my side. He weighs the same as Dexter, though he looks smaller.
Well, not anymore. He's gained a bit of weight, but not much. Dexter... Well, see below. Meanwhile Sinister has turned into the best, or at least the most dedicated, hunter in the house. His repeated meowing is almost comical, as his voice never quite matured. But if he sights a housefly and can reach it, it's dead. Perhaps not immediately, but as soon as those wide white paws can trap it. And no fooling around, either. Catch prey, incapacitate, consume. Then come tell the nearest human all about it in loud, proud tones.

Dexter is Gray's second kitten and other Manx, black with white chest, paws, and facial markings. He's broad, nearly as much so as he is tall, and about 17 pounds. Pigeon-toed in front and splay-footed in back and runs with his head held low. He'd make a great fullback. He's got a delightful "rowr" that he employs when he wants love or when something delights him. He once nearly ran over Molly (when he gets into motion he can cease the movement of his feet but that body just keeps a'moving) and managed to stop at the last second. She tumbled toward him, having been set for impact, and seeing her lying at his feet he cried, "Rowr!" and started happily licking her ears. It's only a trick of body type that makes him look clownish, however, he's actually pretty intelligent and extremely loyal. Dexter and Sinister can be found shadowing me around the house like a couple of loyal lieutenants, so much so that Sam calls them my "Manx Boys" with much the same inflection one speaks of gangsters. It doesn't hurt that they tend to walk shoulder-to-shoulder.
23 pounds, 17 inches around. I've been pushing him up and down the stairs for a few weeks and it might be taking effect. He's lost a pound, I think. And gained about thirty decibels. For some reason when I step on the scale with him over my shoulder he screams in my ear. Wuss.

Archie was my mother's cat. He's got some Persian or other smooshed-nose breed blood but his face is rounded, not flat. He's black with a gray and sable undercoat, all of it long. His eyes are emerald green. Having given Sam a digital camera for Christmas (2003), I now have a picture of him. He's the most loving feline around. He is probably about ten, but we don't know for certain, and 17-18 pounds. He appeared in my mother's backyard in the fall of 2000 to hide under the shed and die. Declawed, he'd managed to tangle with (probably, vet's best guess) a raccoon and survive, to the ruination of one ear and some facial scarring. Mom coaxed him to the house and got him fixed up. Not knowing his name she free-associated names out loud for a couple of evenings. He watched her or ignored her but didn't respond. Then on the second night she said "Archie". He got up and went to her, put his paws on her knee, and meowed. "Is your name Archie?" she asked, and he meowed again. And so it was. Mother passed away in December of 2001 and I inherited her cats. Archie and the others integrated themselves into my family with only a few bobbles. Archie has an agreement with Keeeton which makes me quite pleased with his judgement. Having gotten his lip badly split in the fight, he drools. Lots. So I keep a hand towel by the bed.

Rodger was Keeeton's son. We moved to a semi-country setting beside a milk barn and the cat discovered a loose window. A few months later kittens at the milk barn next door were being born with white paws - a first. Lots of kittens. One litter was born under our trailer, so a neighbor and I snagged one when they were old enough. He was about six weeks old and fearless, spitting at everything that moved and then some. I worried a bit about bringing him in, as Keeeton was still a tom, but Rodger (Sam named him that, no idea why) spit at him and the big cat thought it was cute and gave the kitten a bath. He raised Rodger up right and they were close for the next six years. When Rodger was succombing to the final illness (he was never particularly healthy - none of those barn cats were) Keeeton cleaned and cared for him as though he were still a helpless kitten.
Rodger died in 1995 from renal failure at the age of six. He's left a lasting impression on us, with the feline activity of arranging oneself over a baseboard heater in order to get the maximum amount of heat now called "pulling a Rodger" by the family.

Scooter was my Grandmother's cat. He appeared at the fast-food establishment I worked at one day and hung around the drive-through. We couldn't chase him away, and when a lifted pickup actually straddled him I got scared and stuck him in the car (cold, rainy day - I do NOT endanger animals in hot cars) until the end of my shift. He was wearing a flea collar, so I went all over trying to find his owners. Two humane societies, many pet shops, and an ad in the paper later, nobody claimed him. Keeeton was still a tom and Rodger was very young and the inclusion of another adolescent tom in the house was too much. Fights, spraying, all the usual machismo cat behaviours occurred, so I took him to my mother's and hoped she'd take him. My grandmother, an avowed petless person, was visiting. By the end of the day she was slipping him morsels off her plate and crooning to him. She named him Scooter and he was with her until the end of her days. After her stroke he'd come to her left side so she could rehablitate that hand by petting him. After she died, he just didn't get along with my mother. I still had two cats of my own (Keeeton and Rodger) but decided to see if I could stop him from being so antisocial. He struck up a friendship with Keeeton, the both of them now being neutered, and fit in with the family just fine. When I brought Siobha into the house Keeeton first looked her over and sniffed her, then Scooter, then Rodger. The males then repaired into the kitchen and sat together for a few minutes, then came out in a group and surrounded her with gentle sniffing and head rubs. I brought her home, but they made her part of the family. Scooter was a strong cat his entire life. So by the time he let me know his tummy hurt there was more cancer than stomach. I had promised my grandmother on her deathbed to take care of him, and so I took care of him by seeing him to a dignified and painless passing. It was 1997. He was extremely special and will never be forgotten.

Buddy was my mother's baby. As a puffball of a kitten, no more than seven weeks old, he wandered across the street and nearly got hit by a car because he wanted to see what I was doing in Mom's front yard. Not a single neighbor admitted to knowing where he came from, and knowing my mother had had it "up to here" with my soft-hearted animal-collecting proclivities I smuggled him into the car and brought him home. A couple of days later I got a frantic call from her asking if I'd found the home for the kitten and she was so worried she hadn't seen him at all and what if some wild animal had gotten him... I told her he was with me and safe and she demanded I bring him back to her. "You have four, you don't need another, and I want the kitten!" It was 1992. With so much fur we thought we had a female and Mom called it Gidget. When she took 'her' in to be spayed the doctor informed her of the error and Mother changed his name. Buddy because he was rarely far from her side and because he listened to her and patted her with a paw to let her know he understood. That was her opinion, at least. After she died he dropped a couple of pounds and wouldn't play and I thought I'd lose him then. But he tried to be my cat and would wander into the bedroom and sit on the nightstand sometimes. He was never as happy here as he'd been with Mother, though. In June of 2003 he went behind the cat climbing tree and left this world. I still look for him sleeping flat on his back and spread out all over the living room floor when I walk through at night.

Cosmo was the third of Mother's cats. A Japanese Bobtail with close-set blue eyes and a sweet little meow he employed freely. Mother adopted him from Evergreen Doe Humane Society, a no-kill shelter, in 1999 when he was just a kitten. He was always so delicate to me I was afraid I'd break him, but he was more resilient than he looked. When Mother had to go into a care home, I took him to visit her and she recognized him when she didn't recognize me anymore. He laid close by her side and she'd pet him until she fell asleep. An absolute pragmatist, he moved into our family with no problems at all. When Gimel would get in his face or Daleth would hiss at him or Dexter would try to shoulder him aside he'd look nonplussed and only react if necessary to keep from getting hit. Most of the time he'd hit back, though at 7.5 pounds he was the second smallest. He moved into bed with us rather quickly and had the annoying habit of sleeping at right angles to me and the side of the bed, forcing me toward the middle. He purred at around 75 decibels, though, so I couldn't get mad at him for more than a couple of seconds. He liked to spin toys on the kitchen floor, and keep them spinning. On November 7th, 2003, around 10pm he acted like something hurt him, so I took him to the emergency clinic. His kidneys had essentially shut down, and had been failing for some time. One was gone, the other almost so, and there had been no previous indication whatsoever. As I said, he was the essential pragmatist. In November 8th Sam and I said goodbye to him and let him join his friend Buddy in a place without pain. That was, as of this writing, two days ago. It was his passing that sparked me to finally do this pet project, something that I have been "going to do someday" for years. I can't bear to think he, or any of the others, will ever be forgotten, so I honor them here now.

I really shouldn't be allowed to attempt to sex longhaired cats. First there was Gidget/Buddy, then there was this guy. In my defense, he has a lot of hair and the people upon whose back porch he was living were calling him 'she'. Anyway, I named him Felicity for the first two weeks and he was getting used to it when I finally decided to check and make sure. Male, fixed. Luckily, since he was the eighth cat at this point, I'd been calling 'her' Felicity Octavia, so now he's been Octavius for the past half hour or so. He doesn't appear to mind so long as he's petted when he's approached. He's young with the points still on his canines, so I'm thinking two years old or so. Having lived outdoors he's the self-sufficient type, but is afraid of loud noises, stomping feet, and being closed up. However he was gentle from the start and I have nary a mark on me from stuffing him into a carrier and bringing him home, then clipping his front claws. He craves pets, particularly on the belly and at the base of his tail, and has learned that we're highly responsive to a vocal feline. But sometimes he hides. I believe he was perhaps abandoned. I'm going to be a good girl and have him checked for a chip tomorrow but hope that he has none. We'll see; even if he has another home waiting for him to return he'll always be one of mine because he was here with us. And slept beneath the covers between us purring like mad. And has discovered he really likes yogurt. Hopefully, this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

It's been almost a month since I first created this page. I said it was my pets, but thus far it's all been cats. To think that all we've ever kept are cats would be erroneous.

This is a horribly fuzzy picture, but the only one I have, of my lizard. I believe she was a sagebrush lizard, native to western north America. She was almost definitely illegal to be sold in the US, but I found her in a pet shop (one with a bad reputation) in a glass box with a gecko. Something told me that wasn't right and I couldn't get her out of my head. The next day I went back and the gecko had expired, was still in with her, and had been covered with a paper towel. Knowing absolutely nothing whatsoever about herps, I bought the lizard and two dozen crickets. She didn't like crickets. In fact, once I did trick her into striking one and she promptly spit it out, backed up, and wiped her muzzle on the floor of her habitat. I'd created a semi-desert habitat in a 10-gallon fish aquarium with proper lighting, heating, etc. (I highly recommend the Usenet group rec.pets.herps, as they gave me a lot of invaluable help and even though my lizard was barely 7" long I was taken seriously as a herper by the people with the big critters.) She survived nearly two years in captivity, and from what I'm told that's pretty amazing. I wish I could have returned her to the wild, but was never sure exactly where that might be. Oh, and what she ended up eating was mealworms and earthworms. And loving 'em. She was tan with dark brown stripes and a creamy underbelly with really delicate and smooth scales. She never wanted to be held, but she'd jump onto the back of my hand if I held it still. In the picture her tail is curved at the upper left and her head is down in the lower right.

These are some pre-existing pictures I had on my main page of late. I figured I'd move them here. Spazzy was Aleph when he was with us, the first of Boots' litter. My friend Katharine got this shot of Daleth using a digital camera.

The first obligatory "this is my cat" picture I ever put online. His name's Daleth and yes, he's very black. I think he was either hiding from or trying to get into the camera when this was taken. He's one of our gang; Boots' youngest son.

Okay, it's cheesy, but I gave a kitten to friends a couple of years ago and they sent me a picture last summer. You can take a look at Spazzycat here.

This page belongs to Britt (known as Teceangl in the Society for Creative Anachronism). In case anyone cares, they can email me.