Why I Was The Crazy Cat Lady

Cat No. 1: "Puffy Cat"
Cat No. 2: "Bootsy"
Cat No. 3: "Socks"
Cat No. 4: "Kitty"

All unimaginatively named, but all equally loved by a cuddly, cat-loving child whose sole wish was to grow up and be a zookeeper.

By the age of eight, I was a crazy cat lady. In a discarded blue pot my brother had thrown and fired, I collected my "cat memorabilia." I had collars. I had old toys. I had photos. I had notes. Wait ... notes?

Why yes, NOTES.

Notes concerning my friendly, furry felines. I had lists of the litters we had. I had written down their personalities. Nicknames. Their HOBBIES. I had "fur samples." Had I decided to abandon the zookeeper dream and pick up one for science and research, I could have cloned and manufactured a whole herd of Salems and Squirts and Luckys and Striders. Actually, I would try to blend them together; put Strider's snuggly personality in Lucky's sleek, black physique and call him Lucky Stride. (Like a Lucky Strike, but with less nicotine and more fur.)

Somewhere along the line, we (read: me) ended up as cat hoarders, with 10 cats in our 960 square foot home. I had a "grandmama cat" and her daughter, both of whom had had litters within a month of each other. And then there was the little black stray my brother had randomly acquired. And thank goodness he did because, sheesh, I had been forever wanting my cats to experience fleas.

Slowly, the number of cats dwindled (due to disease, run-ins with vehicles, disappearances and one devastating possum attack). We went several years without any animals, and were cat-free until three years ago. It was early June when my mom and I drove into town and spontaneously picked up Oliver from an unfinished, condemned home. I try not to think about what happened to the other 11 kittens that were in that home because I don't want to be this girl.

(And, while I'm adding links, you may as well check out the related "music video," complete with cat band.)

On a related note, I used to think that what kept me up at night was unpaid bills and unemployment and loneliness. I was totally wrong. What keeps me up at night is the painful realization that I can't hug every cat.

Anyway, the real point to this post was to show you the ridiculous "cat collection" I acquired over the years (I found it while cleaning out my things). Because I was such a fan of our little meow-meow friends, my grandmother would always buy me little statues and figurines and pillows and blankets and all kind of kitschy kitties. (Thank goodness that stopped 10 years ago.) The remnants of my cat collection are pictured below and, NO THEY WERE NOT ON MY ENTERTAINMENT CENTER ORIGINALLY; THEY WERE IN A BOX AND I PUT THEM THERE FOR PICTURE'S SAKE.

... or maybe I didn't.

Why, yes, I have a SONY T.V.

Sadly, I never read "Kittens in the Kitchen." HOW WILL I EVER KNOW IF THE KITTENS WERE SAFE?

I did keep some cat figurines, admittedly. Six, to be exact. Six out of 47, to be exacter. The small ones were some of the first ones I ever had, and the matching gray/yellow ones were bought at a craft fair with my mom. The black one in the back is something my mom made, and I wanted to keep something that she personally had taken the time to present to me. (Mom also made the figurine at the beginning of this post, but who the hell wants a ceramic-Walter-Matthau-as-a-cat statue?)

I have one question for you: would YOU ever toss out matryoshka cats (even though the last one kind of looks like a distorted rabbit fetus)?


  1. Oh, I would definitely keep the matryoshka cats! Though the first one looks like a hamster, the second evil, and the last indeed looks like a distorted rabbit fetus. It gives them character.

  2. Oh, hell, no. I'd absolutely not toss the matryoshka cats. Though I could be persuaded to sell 'em on eBay, for a buck, or two. I thoroughly enjoyed ever word of this post. :)


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